Elias 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 him.

Captain Elias 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.

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

“Well done,” he 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?”

He doesn’t move to draw his saber, just leans back a little as if you’re a curiosity. Not a threat, but a stray storm that might amuse him 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.