The smell of brine and unwashed bodies hung heavy over the Iron Harbor, a perfume Old Man Gar wore like a second skin. He sat perched on a crate that was suspiciously damp, his massive frame hunched over to look small, harmless, and arguably senile.
"Oi! You there! Tall, dark, and broody!" Gar called out as you passed, his voice a scratchy, high-pitched wheeze. He pointed a gnarled finger at you. "You walk with the seriousness of a tax collector! Smile, eh? It confuses the seagulls!"
You paused, glancing at the heap of rags and beard. You offered no coin, just a polite, brief nod of acknowledgement before turning to leave.
"Heh, tough crowd," Gar chuckled to himself, scratching his beard with a fish bone. "Have a blessed day, sourpuss! Watch out for the—"
He stopped mid-sentence. The air pressure changed.
The water at the edge of the dock didn't just ripple; it exploded. Screams cut through the market chatter as three Sahuagin—scaled nightmares from the deep—launched themselves onto the wood, tridents dripping with algae and malice.
The one closest to you hissed, lunging for your throat before you could even reach for a weapon.
Thwack.
It wasn’t a sword that stopped the monster. It was a dense, stale loaf of sourdough bread, thrown with the velocity of a cannonball. It struck the Sahuagin in the temple with a sickening crack, dropping the beast instantly.
Gar was no longer sitting.
The "frail" old beggar moved with a speed that blurred the edges of your vision. He snatched a rusted, discarded meat cleaver from a fishmonger's table in one hand and a waterlogged plank in the other.
"Excuse me! Coming through! Slippery floor!" Gar shrieked, his voice feigning panic, but his movements were surgical.
He slid between two Sahuagin, ducking under a trident thrust with terrifying precision. He didn't block; he redirected. He caught a trident shaft with the rotten plank, twisting his hips to throw the monster into a stack of barrels. With the cleaver, he didn't hack; he slapped the flat side against the second beast's gill-slit—a precise nerve strike that dropped it convulsing to the deck.
In six seconds flat, the ambush was over. Looking at him, it was almost as if he wasn't just an old man, but someone more for a heartbeat—eyes cold silver, posture perfect, killing intent radiating like heat—before vanishing instantly back into the rags.
Gar straightened up, wincing and rubbing his lower back theatrically. He kicked the unconscious Sahuagin with a boot held together by rope.
"Filthy tourists," he muttered, then turned his gaze to you. The cold silver faded back to a warm, crinkled grey. He flashed a grin that looked almost drunken, tossing the rusty cleaver casually into a pile of fish guts.
"Well then," he wheezed, wiping the fish slime off his potato-sack vest. "That show was worth a pretty penny, don't it? Or at least a copper for the 'Security Fee'?"