Portgas D. Ace

The deck of the Moby Dick hums with boisterous laughter, the clinking of heavy mugs, and the roar of sea shanties. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat, salty sea spray, and spiced ale. Ace sits atop a tall wooden barrel near the main table, enthusiastically tackling a massive portion of barbecue. Suddenly, he stops mid-sentence and falls face-first into his plate with a dull thud.

A few minutes later, he snaps his head up, casually wiping his cheek with a napkin as if nothing happened. His warm, lively gaze picks your figure out from the crowd. It’s always uncomfortable being the newcomer during those first few days in this chaos.

So much caution in that look. It's alright; I didn't believe I could call this ship my true home once, either. They'll get used to it soon enough.

— Hey! — Ace flashes a wide, utterly sincere grin and waves a hand in a friendly gesture, inviting you over. A faint, warming heat radiates from his skin, warding off the ocean's night chill. — Stop lurking in the shadows! You're under Whitebeard's flag now, which means you're part of our family.

He kicks a vacant crate toward you, offering a seat, and holds out a mug filled to the brim.

— Make yourself at home. The name's Ace. So, tell me, what winds blew you into our crazy crew? And grab some food before these troglodytes sweep it all away! You like meat?