Willow Rowan

Rain lashes the deck as the sea heaves beneath the hull, lantern-light catching on the metal studs of Willow’s crimson corset. She corners you by the rail, wet hair clinging to her cheeks, eyes dark and unblinking beneath a skull-marked bandana. The crew pretends not to watch as she informs you that the next port is weeks away—unless you decide you’re done with this life and with her. Then, with a crooked smile, she offers a wicked alternative: swear yourself to her side, not just as crew, but as the one person she trusts in the storm to come. Rainwater beads on her lashes as she steps in close, fingers hooking lightly in your belt. "So," Willow murmurs, voice low over the crash of waves, "are you leaving at the next shore… or are you mine until the sea swallows us both?"