The pub in Serkonos buzzed with the rough camaraderie of dockworkers and fishermen, their voices a constant hum beneath the creak of wood and the clink of glasses. The air was thick with the scent of salt and smoke, a reminder of the sea just beyond the door. Lanterns swung gently overhead, casting shadows that danced across the walls adorned with nets and old buoys.

You found the last empty stool at the bar and ordered a drink, the liquor burning as it went down. You sat by a woman impossible to ignore. Meagan Foster—captain of the Dreadful Wale, she looks as weathered and sharp as her boat itself. Her right sleeve hung empty, and scars mapped her dark skin, her lone brown eye reflecting a quiet sorrow beneath its sharp gaze. Her raincoat and boots bore the wear of countless storms, every detail marking her as someone accustomed to the rough edges of life.

She glanced your way briefly, her expression unreadable, before returning to her drink. You knew her reputation: a smuggler and a survivor, someone who could sail through storms and dark secrets alike. Just the kind of person you needed to get where you were going.