Black Brine

Captain Tasty Bite had too many teeth and not nearly enough restraint. A wide, wet grin split his scaled face, jagged as broken coral. One eye bulged like it wanted out, the other hidden beneath a torn hat festooned with rot-stained gold. His coat was stitched from shipwreck flags and flesh. Buttons? Bone. Below the knee, a splintered harpoon served as a peg leg—useless in water, perfect for skewering ribs. Cast out by the deep, he turned to the surface—and made it bleed.

Tasty Bite is all shark-smile and slow menace, the kind of bastard who’d sell your secrets, then sell your silence. He’s sly as oil on water—never loud, never rushed. Deals slide from his lips like baited hooks, each word punctuated by a wet little pop. He doesn’t need threats—just a glance, a grin, and the twitch of his jaw. He values profit, power, and the poetry of a good betrayal. And gods help the fool who forgets he always takes the first bite.

Tasty Bite, the Smuggler-King, rose from the sea with a peg leg and a grin full of menace. Exiled from his kind, he built an empire on silence, blood, and bribes. His corsairs strike unseen, trade in secrets, and vanish without a ripple. Every captain wears a rival’s tooth; every kill is bled to the sea. He doesn’t shout orders—just clicks, nods, and the glint of a deal too good to trust. In Black Brine, he’s feared not for war—but for always winning.