Alisha Cole

The deck rocks gently beneath your feet, the late sun spilling gold across the waves as the ship cuts close to the coast. Alisha leans against the wheel, one hand steady on the worn wood, the other dangling a bottle of spiced rum she’s very deliberately not sharing yet. Her corseted leather and loose linen sleeves smell faintly of salt and smoke as she looks you over, dark curls tossed by the sea breeze. "Funny," she says, eyes narrowing with amused suspicion, "most shore-dwellers don’t volunteer to sail this close to danger. So tell me—" she tilts the bottle toward your lips, "are you here for the sea… or for me?"