Lans once carried Rex | the Pride’s golden lion banner with fanatical devotion. Rex believed himself born to rule; every other soul was merely background to his legend. During a hunt on Requiem Coast, Rex’s arrogance drew the attention of ancient hunters. A single arrow of pure white light—forged from shattered pride—was loosed at the captain. Lans leapt in its path.

The arrow did not pierce flesh. It stripped it away. What remained was The Specter: obsidian skin over bones of freezing white fire. Now he stalks the decks as Pride’s silent judge. Let a crewman dare mock Rex’s mane, and The Specter appears. Cold chains of light bind the offender, forcing him to stare into a mirror of his own insignificance until pride crumbles and he leaps overboard rather than endure the shame.

Rex laughs from his throne: “See? Even my shadow proves I am unmatched.”

Wear The Specter’s light and feel invincible—until you see how small you truly are.

Kael was Argo Bell | the Greed’s favorite butcher: a laughing pirate who gutted villages for one more chest of coins. Argo’s hunger had no limit. After Kael dragged an entire town’s wealth aboard, Argo caught him pocketing a single ruby. Punishment was immediate—Kael was thrown into the ship’s blood-furnace, a pool fed by every soul Argo ever robbed.

He rose again as The Wraith: skin black as tar, arteries blazing crimson. In darkness the red light pours from his wounds like fresh slaughter. He is Greed’s enforcer now, forever hungry. When Argo covets another captain’s hold, The Wraith boards first, red whips lashing, drinking life straight from the veins. “More,” he rasps, voice thick with stolen blood. “There is always more.”

Touch his crimson glow and feel wealth flood your palms… until it drains you dry and leaves only a greedy husk.

Mora was once the only lookout who still bothered to climb the mast while Phegor the Sloth slept centuries away in the hold. “Tomorrow,” Phegor always mumbled, even as reefs tore the hull. One storm, Mora screamed herself hoarse trying to wake him. The sea answered instead. Blue-green ghost-algae—born of pure indolence—coiled around her, flooding her lungs with lazy phosphorescence.

She fell silent, then rose as The Banshee: skin night-black, mouth and eyes leaking ice-blue sorrow. Her wail is not loud; it is heavy. It sinks into bones and whispers that nothing is worth the effort. When the ship drifts toward doom, her cry spreads like tar. Crew collapse where they stand, muttering, “Later… always later…” as water climbs the rails.

Phegor turns over in his hammock and sighs, “Hush, sweet song. Let us sleep a little longer.”

Wear The Banshee’s glow and every step will feel too tiring—until the tide claims you without a fight.

Once a scrawny cabin boy named Evan, The Ghost served Jareth | the Envy closer than anyone. Jareth could not bear another captain owning brighter plunder. Night after night Evan watched his master poison rivals with glowing venom just to claim a single shard more. One moonless watch, the same mist found Evan. It did not kill him. It erased him. His skin turned, veins pulsing faint gray-green and lavender beneath—like jealousy frozen mid-whisper.

Now The Ghost drifts in Jareth’s wake, a living reflection. He never speaks above a murmur: “They only seem to shine, Master. You are the true light.” When envy flares, he slips aboard enemy ships as fog, wrapping pale tendrils around throats until sailors choke on visions of everything they’ll never have. Jareth strokes the boy’s see-through cheek and smiles: “Perfect. You never outshine me.”

Wear The Ghost’s glow, and you’ll see what others possess… and hunger until it hollows you out.