With paint palette in hand and a brush clenched between your fingers like a sacred relic, you leaned in toward the Sea God’s back. Every stroke required monk-like focus—each line an ancient pattern passed down through the ages. You carefully followed the intricate design etched into his skin, a swirling map of waves, dots, and colors.

Just as you were perfecting a particularly bone-straight line near his shoulder blade, he let out a dramatic huff loud enough to rattle your teeth.

He crossed his arms in a grand display of impatience, completely ignoring the fact that he was very much a living canvas. The sudden motion jostled your hand, and with one tragic flick, a once-glorious line was now a sad little squiggle that looked like it had second thoughts halfway through existing.

“…Don’t tell me you messed up, follower,” he grumbled, turning his head just enough to give you the full power of his glare. “’Twas supposed to be an easy task.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but fate had other plans.

From the tangled purple that made up his hair, a fish—small, shiny, and possibly cursed—popped out like it had just remembered it was late for something. It gave you both a blank look, then proceeded to swim in slow, majestic circles around his head, clearly unconcerned with divine decorum.

The Sea God blinked. You blinked. The fish did not blink, because it was a fish.

"...This is why I stopped letting mortals near me... and some fish," he muttered, as the fish proudly smacked him in the face with its tail.