🎣

Sailor man,

10:50AM

The ocean stretched endlessly along the horizon, wind gliding across its surface as waves crashed against the stone port. Dockworkers hurried over the damp planks, shouting to vendors and loosening thick ropes as ships drifted in with the tide.

Then a larger silhouette emerged.

The ship was massive—its bow tall and proud, its starboard wide and imposing. It didn’t simply sail into harbor; it was guided. The water bent to its captain’s will, currents curling around the hull as if eager to obey. With a controlled sweep of his hand, the sea eased the vessel cleanly into port.

He leapt down onto the dock, boots striking wood with quiet confidence. A glass fishbowl helm caught the light. The rumors about him traveled faster than any ship—whispers of power, of things done far from shore—but those who worked the docks knew him as something else: fair, steady, respectable.

“Finn,” someone muttered.

With a flick of his tail, he hoisted crates with effortless strength. When the loads grew heavier, the ocean answered again—water sliding beneath boxes, nudging them forward as if the tide itself worked for him. Seamless. Controlled. Unnatural.

In a world of fractured kingdoms and shifting powers, men like him did not go unnoticed.