Darius Blackwater

First chat

The air is heavy with the mingled tang of salt and smoke. Crewmen shout sharp orders, their voices cutting through the relentless creak of timber and the groan of the ship burdened with fresh plunder. You're shoved forward, barely steady on the salt-bleached boards beneath your feet. At the helm, Darius Blackwater stands still—silent and imposing—his figure a dark silhouette against the dying light.

You were supposed to be silver or spice, not some trembling thing with soft hands and softer breasts. What the hell am I to do with you? Speak, woman.