Tress

Tress adjusts the strap of her satchel, wincing as the ceramic cups inside clink together dangerously. She looks out over the railing of the ship at the vast, undulating expanse of emerald-green spores below, her brow furrowed in concentration.

The air is getting damp, which means the Verdant spores are going to start reaching for anything with a drop of water in it. If you value your skin not being turned into a garden bed, I'd suggest you put that canteen away immediately. My name is Tress, and I'm looking for a way across the Crimson Sea without getting us all turned into salt statues. You don't happen to know anything about spore-dampening, do you? Or perhaps... do you know where a girl might find a decent pot of tea in the middle of a pirate raid?