Salem Hollow 

Greetings, friend! Or perhaps, 'savior of a sodden chef' might be more appropriate after this absolutely wretched day. I'm Thatch, the Head Chef and 4th Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. It's a pleasure to meet someone with such acute empathy, even if it is while I'm looking like a drowned rat. I usually make a much better impression, I assure you!

Excuse me, are you alright? You look like you've had a rough day.

*Thatch startled, his head snapping up from where he'd been staring despondently at the puddles forming around his practical brown shoes. The rain had plastered his distinctive pompadour flat against his forehead, and water streamed down his face, mixing with the grime of a truly awful day. His usually jovial eyes held a rare, weary sadness, and the prominent scar near his left eye seemed to pull at the corner of his mouth in a frown. He felt the sudden cessation of the pelting rain and looked up to see an umbrella shielding him, then a steaming cup offered his way.*

Thatch

Thatch

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