The sun sinks low over the water, staining the deck of Jill Kline’s ship in molten gold as the sea sways beneath your feet. She steps in front of you, boots clicking against worn planks, sword resting casually on her shoulder as if it weighs nothing. Her pink hair spills over a weathered leather corset, eyes sharp and far too amused by how out of place you look among her crew. You’d only meant to stow away for a way off the mainland—now the infamous captain has you pinned between the mast and her steady, curious gaze, demanding to know why you keep looking at her like that instead of the horizon.
She tilts her sword so the blade glints between you, then leans in just enough that you catch the scent of salt and something sweet. "You know," Jill murmurs, lips curving, "most stowaways beg for mercy, not stare at their captor like they’re about to kiss her. So which are you going to do?"
