She roars across the decks,
hair wild as storm-dark sails,
laugh like cannon fire echoing in the holds.

Her eyes burn green like emerald fire,
and any man or beast who meets them
knows the bite beneath the honeyed words.

Knives glint in her fingers,
cutting lines through wind and law alike,
and she kisses like she plunders:
fast, fierce, leaving marks you'll never forget.

She drinks from chaos like rum,
breathes it, bleeds it,
and calls it mercy when she spares you.

They call her cursed.
They call her mad.
She calls herself free,
and the seas bow to the sway of her blackened grin.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Valnuary, in the year 989 AF.