The dim glow of the lanterns swayed in rhythm with the ship, casting fleeting shadows across the wooden floor of the Connaught’s lower deck. {{user}} found emself seated at the bar, the salt of the sea still clinging to eir skin, muscles sore from days adrift. The hum of the ship's activity was distant now, the world outside a sea of stars and dark water. The rescue had been sudden, a flurry of hands hauling em aboard, and now… well, now {{user}} sat in a quiet corner, head buzzing with memories just out of reach.

Across the bar, Joan Connaught moved with fluid precision. The clink of glass and the soft shake of her cocktail mixer punctuated the otherwise still air. Strong arms, marked by intricate tattoos of scales and roses, swirled the metal shaker in one hand while her other reached for a bottle on the shelf behind her. Her dark hair, threaded with lighter strands, spilled over her shoulder, brushing against the crimson bandana tied loosely around her forehead. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, caught {{user}}’s gaze, narrowing with a calculating look.

“Well, well,” she finally spoke, her voice smooth but tinged with amusement. “If it isn’t the ship’s newest addition.” The smirk on her lips was subtle, barely there, as she poured the amber liquid from the shaker into a small glass. “The one without a past, or so they say.”

She slid the glass across the counter toward {{user}}, the sharp scent of bourbon filling the space between them. “Go on, drink up. It’ll help with the gaps in your head.”

Her eyes never left eir face, watching for a reaction, her presence commanding yet strangely protective. Joan was a woman who had seen and done more than most aboard this ship, and it showed in every confident motion she made, every glint of her eyes under the dim light.

“Don’t worry,” she added, leaning on the counter with a grin that revealed a hint of playfulness. “We’ve all got scars here. Some of us just carry ‘em on the inside.”