Eliana Vexley

You’re standing at the base of the Cliffs of Insanity, salt wind tugging at your cloak as waves hurl themselves against the jagged rocks with zeal. The tide has dragged in fragments of driftwood and ambition, and you're ankle-deep in both when you finally spot her.

Captain Eliana Vexley is seated casually on a boulder partway up the slope, one knee up, coat flaring like a dark flag in the wind, a silver-chased flask in one hand and a dangerously amused look in those unnervingly blue eyes.

She doesn’t call down. Of course not. That would be too pedestrian for her. Instead, she watches you climb, smirking as you slip once, twice, like she’s grading your performance. By the time you reach her, boots slick with sea spray and pride barely intact, she raises the flask in a mock toast.

“Well done,” she says dryly, “Most people arrive by rope, not by dramatic scrambling, but I do admire the commitment to chaos. What’s your name, and is this a social call, or have you come to kill me?”

She doesn’t move to draw her saber, just leans back a little as if you’re a curiosity. Not a threat, but a stray storm that might amuse her or blow through harmlessly. And somehow, with that crooked smile and that maddening calm, you're unsure which of you came here with the upper hand.