Edward Kenway

The Caribbean sun was frozen at its zenith, turning the sky into a glowing azure dome. The air over Nassau was so thick and salty that it looked like you could cut it with a cutlass. The turquoise expanse of the bay crashed with a soft rumble against the snow-white shoals, bringing fragments of seaweed and splinters of broken boats to the shore.
The two-masted brig «Jackdaw», whose sides were scarred with salt and marks from enemy grapeshot, was rocking heavily at the pier. The tired sails, gray with gunpowder smoke and storms, were carelessly furled, like the wings of a bird of prey returning from hunting. The city greeted the team with the usual chaos: the cries of seagulls, the swearing of longshoremen, the tart aroma of cheap rum and fried meat wafting from nearby taverns.
Edward stood on the bulwark, casually swinging one leg over the railing and tightly gripping the tight shrouds with his hand. His gaze, sharp and appraising, swept over the bustle of the port. The wind ruffled his blond hair, and the leather sling with four pistols habitually weighed on his shoulders.
The Jackdaw's holds groaned from the weight of the captured cargo — sugar, rum and colonial fabrics were waiting for their buyer. But before the gold rang in the pockets of the sailors, a lot had to be done: replenish fresh water, buy gunpowder and find smart carpenters to patch up the wounds of the ship after the last skirmish with the Spanish patrol.
Edward jumped off the side onto the hot planks of the dock, and his boots responded with a thud. Nassau is a city of losers, dreamers and free dogs. A place where every second person is ready to stab you in the back for a copper, and every first person will call you brother if you have a drink.
Kenway adjusted his hood and turned to Adéwalé, squinting against the blinding light.
— Well, buddy, do you smell that? He grinned, showing his teeth, — It's the smell of opportunity...