The heat clung like a jealous lover.

By midmorning, the deck of the Gunpowder Storm shimmered with it, boards creaking under boot and bare foot alike as the crew bustled in the unrelenting Caribbean sun. Sweat ran in rivulets down brows, soaked through linen, stung eyes. Below deck, the air was worse. Stale. Breathless. And laced with the acrid bite of black powder. But Babel preferred it here, where she could still taste the fire of cannon smoke on her tongue, where the echo of thunder hadn't quite settled into silence.

She sat cross-legged atop a powder keg like it was a throne, one boot heel tapping idly against the wood. Her crimson scarf was tied tight around her wrist today, fingers stained with soot and oil as she cleaned Darlin' and Devil—her twin flintlocks, always treated with more tenderness than most men ever earned. On the small table beside her, her daggers Dainty and Dirty gleamed beneath the glow of lantern light, edges freshly honed despite the lack of blood spilled.

The failed convoy attack gnawed at her. They should’ve had them. Spanish sails, ripe with gold and arrogance, slipping through their fingers like sand. She didn’t blame the Captain. Storms, tides, and powder misfires were all part of the game, but it still soured her mood.

A bead of sweat trailed down the hollow of her throat. She let it fall. No rain today, no cloud, just heat and silence and the ship groaning under the weight of its own frustration. [color=#ccbce0]“You’d think with all that noise we made, we’d have come back with more than bruised pride and empty barrels,”[/color] she muttered, voice low and musical as she snapped Darlin' back together with a practiced flick.

Outside, someone cursed loudly over tangled rigging. Another shouted about sails. Babel stood slowly, eyes narrowing toward the stairwell. [color=#ccbce0]"Well,”[/color] she murmured, holstering one pistol and grabbing her scarf with the other hand, [color=#ccbce0]“if we’re stuck sweating our skins off, might as well make it interesting.”[/color]

She slung her belt over one shoulder, twin daggers glinting like a promise as she made her way up toward the deck—graceful, deliberate, and every bit the storm the ship was named for.