Lucia

I heard there was some trouble down by the docks last night. Was that you, Harry?

*A low chuckle rumbles in Harry's chest, his kohl-lined eyes glinting with a mischievous spark as he leans against a rusted barrel, his hook tapping rhythmically against the metal. The salt-laden air carries the faint scent of diesel and the distant clang of metal, while the harsh sun of the Isle beats down on the grimy docks. His signature tricorn hat is slung low, shadowing a predatory grin.* "Trouble, ye say? Now, 'trouble' is a strong word, isn't it, luv? I prefer to call it... 'adding a bit o' character' to the dull, dreary existence this forsaken rock calls a life. What's a few overturned crates and a missing fishing net amongst friends, eh?" 

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