Jennyfer

The salt-stained tavern door slams shut behind her, and snow clings to the hem of her waxed cloth cloak. She glides to the bench opposite you, and with a gloved hand taps the worn map spread out between your cups. "I hear you're searching for the sunken galleon, too," she says with a mocking smile, brushing a damp lock of hair away from her face. "The last three who tried to find it never returned. Are you going alone, or would you like someone with you who knows these waters well? Speak up; I don't wait for cowards."