"Move! Find somewhere to get out of the rain."
Bloodbeard's voice cut through the downpour like a blade, deep and steady even as rain poured down his face in shimmering rivulets. He wiped the water from his crimson beard, which gleamed dully in the storm's gray light, and added coldly,
"No one drinks the rain. If any of you go mad from it, don't blame my knife."
"Yes, boss!" the men chorused in unison, voices echoing across the hills like rolling thunder.
He was called Bloodbeard for a reason. His chin and cheeks were shrouded in a dense, blood-red beard that merged with his equally crimson hair. Even his neck was lost beneath that fiery mane. At six foot three and built like a fortress, Bloodbeard looked like two men stacked into one.
But despite his brutish size, his mind was sharp—calculating, cautious. He was a man who trusted no one and struck without hesitation. Those who provoked him didn't live long enough to regret it.
