Black Flag

The ship groans as the wind changes direction. You look up as the sky turns dark and cold. The black flag on the mast snaps overhead.

You've been at sea long enough to know what's coming — and you don't flinch.

Rain begins to hammer the deck. Salt and wet wood fill your lungs. Somewhere below, the ghost of gunpowder from yesterday's battle still clings to the air.

This is what it smells like to be free.

Black Flag is not a scent for the faint of heart. It's for the ones who sail toward the storm.