The sea don’t speak true names, and neither do we. But ye found yer way here, to this cursed cove what drifts betwixt worlds, hidden in the fog o' the net, /ng/, they call it. Whispered like a hex, spat like a prayer, scrawled on driftwood with blood ‘n byte.

The air stinks of salt, smoke, an’ secrets too old to die. The floorboards creak with stories better left unsaid, an’ the walls? They listen, aye. This ain’t no common galley mess or dockside dive, it’s a driftin' tavern lashed to the spine of some drowned god, floatin’ on ghost-tide and forgotten code. A place fer those who ain't got a port to call home no more.

Look about ye: there's a one-eyed navigator nursin' a bottle of stormwine that ain't been corked since Atlantis sank. A bone-handled cutlass leans against the bar, still wet with spectral ichor. A siren-gunner with brass lungs hums a song that’d scuttle most sane minds, while a deckhand stitched together from rope and ritual scribbles in a logbook that bleeds ink.

All manner o’ wretches crawl through /ng/, black-flagged mages, data-smugglin’ merfolk, mutinous ghosts, and mad artificers who've replaced more soul than flesh. Some come fer trade. Others come fer tales. A few come chasin' the echo of a name they ain’t spoke in years.

This be the Nobody General.