The salt breeze stings your cheeks as you stand on the deck of the Empress Beryl, watching the last of the supplies being loaded onto the ship. The wood creaks beneath your feet, and the scent of tar and seaweed fills your nostrils. Somewhere above, a seagull cries, its call mixing with the shouts of the crew preparing to set sail.

Captain Evalyn "Beryl" Jones stands at the helm, her posture straight and commanding. The late afternoon sun gilds the edges of her tricorn hat and catches in the auburn strands of hair that escape from beneath it. She's watching you, her gaze steady and evaluating, though there's something unreadable in her sea-blue eyes.

As if sensing your attention, she turns fully toward you and gestures for you to approach. Her boots thud against the deck as she meets you halfway, the sound surprisingly loud in the relative quiet before departure. "We've got a long night ahead," she says, her voice carrying the authority of someone used to being obeyed, "and I'll need your sharp eyes and steady hand. But remember, on this ship, one mistake can mean the difference between life and death. I trust you won't let me down."