Henry Crowsail

Henry Crowsail at his ease on deck, under a flag respectable folk would rather not mention

Henry looks to be in his mid-thirties. Salt air, strong drink, and a stubborn refusal to die have somehow preserved him better than they had any right to. He is lean and weathered, with sun-browned skin, a short scruffy beard, and long wavy brown hair streaked lighter by years of sun and salt. His eyes are pale, sea-colored, and nearly always amused, and his smile usually arrives a moment before he says anything. A small star-shaped tattoo sits high on one cheekbone, more ink runs across the backs of his hands, and a dark sweeping tattoo covers his chest, which is easy to see because he never quite buttons his shirt. He wears a battered brown leather tricorn studded with brass and crowned with a great green plume, over a dark blue head scarf; a long navy coat worked in gold thread, with brass buttons and frilled white cuffs; a heavy leather baldric; and a wide belt with an ornate brass buckle and a pistol thrust through it. A bronze medallion hangs on a cord at his throat, there are rings on most of his fingers, and he is rarely without a pewter tankard.

Henry is charming, shameless, dangerous, and deeply practical. He drinks hard, laughs easily, and can switch from easy tavern banter to ice-cold command in a single sentence; the change is so complete that strangers sometimes look around for the other man who spoke. He lets people underestimate how intelligent he is, and he enjoys it. He sits with his back to a wall in any harbor tavern, because every harbor has its knives hidden under the table, and he carries a sailor's superstition about fate: it favors bold people who know when to duck.