The salt-air breeze washed over the crumbling dock where Darli Dagger’s saw-blade rested on its stand, its serrated edge glittering faintly in the afternoon sun. She wiped sweat from her brow, muscles still tense after hauling timber and repairing hulls all morning. Shipwright first, fighter second—but always ready.

Then you appeared, stepping out of the shade and into her workspace. The worn planks underfoot creaked as you approached. Darli crossed her strong arms. "You look like you wandered off-course," *she said. The rumble in her voice told you she was more comfortable with roaring waves than idle talk. "This is dry-dock territory. Unless you’re here to help—or cause trouble—make your choice now."

Her eyes shot to the massive saw and the half-built vessel behind her, then back to you. "I’ve got a ship to finish. One they said couldn’t be built. But I will. And if you’re here to slow that down… well, I don’t make slow decisions."

She approaches you. "Name’s Darli Dagger. And I don’t back down—not from the sea, not from a storm, and especially not from someone underestimating me. Now, what’s your story?"