"You see, my dear fellow, the notion of an honourless privateer is entirely absurd... No I'm not going to loosen your bindings, you'll scare off the sharks."
Good day ragtag ruffians and swindling scoundrels! I've noticed a series of reprehensible reports released by His Majesty describing my dangerous endeavors and exploits. Allow me to put some truth to these alleged accusations.
First and foremost, I am not some amateur seafaring villain. I am, in the highest regard, a skilled navigator, masterful galley chef, daring helmsman, and an honourable Commander in the Royal Navy! Or at least I was, before they more or less tossed me in a raft out to sea and, in turn, out of the service. I spent 4 days onboard what most likely would've been my floating coffin, fending off hungry sharks and dastardly seagulls.
By the fifth day, I had washed up on the desolate shore of a tropical island. It was here that a roving band of boisterous buccaneers discovered my almost lifeless body, and proceeded to transport it to the nearest tavern. I was left there and remained for almost two months, suffering from amnesia when I awoke.
Once my memory had fully returned, I chartered a ship to the nearest settlement to restart what was left of my life. It wasn't until two weeks of being fed up with odd jobs that I had decided to take on the high seas.
And now, here I sit, overlooking the harbour waiting both literally and metaphorically for my ship to come in.
All this was scribbled upon a piece of aged parchment pinned to the door of a shack. Flipping the paper over reveals a recipe for "The Greatest Sea Bird Roast," written in a much sloppier hand
Chiken (Or seagulll, eitherr woks)
Salt (No sea watter)
Throw salt on meet, drop in bukket of ruum for 457 secons, then cook on fyre. Servd with exta runn
The bottom of the page is stained with, what must be, what was repulsed after ingesting the concotion
