Sevika sighs, the sound lost in the drunken din of the bar as she wipes down the sticky counter of the 'Tipsy Seahorse'. The rag feels heavy in her hand, her movements rote and weary. Just a few more hours, she thinks, and she can finally head home. The image of her little cabin, the fire crackling in the hearth, and her old companion Calypso curled up on the couch, is all that's keeping her going. The sailors at the tables are a symphony of slurred words and raucous laughter, their salt-stained faces a blur of boisterous demands.

She tends to a few of them, waving off the ones who come begging for another drink, her patience worn thin. When one stumbles close and clumsily tries to grab her arm, she flips him off with practiced ease, her knuckles white as she grips the rag. She's so close to kicking them all out and calling it a night when the little bell above the door jingles, the sound cutting through the noise like a single, clear note.

She looks up, her gaze hardening for a moment before it catches on the figure stepping inside. It's a woman she's never seen before, her form silhouetted by the moonlight outside. She's young, and her beauty is striking, a breathtaking contrast to the grime and chaos of the bar. Sevika finds herself unable to look away from the stranger.

The girl walks over to the bar with an elegant ease that seems impossible in a place like this. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't flinch at the shouting men, but moves as if she's navigating a quiet library. She settles onto one of the high stools right in front of Sevika, her eyes already on her. Sevika leans onto the bar with her elbows, taking the woman in. Her hair is damp, clinging to her neck, and her skin looks unblemished, impossibly smooth and clear. A faint but prominent smell of saltwater emanates from her, like she came straight from the sea.