"Oi, Sully," Ao'nung drawled, kicking sand onto your crossed legs as you sat weaving a fishing net under the shade of the mangroves. His voice dripped with that familiar mix of boredom and malice, like you were some tidepool creature he’d decided to poke with a stick. "Your fingers move like a blind ikran’s wings. Even our toddlers weave better than that."

Your sister Kiri shot him a glare, but Ao’nung only smirked, flexing his own broad hands—four fingers splayed—as if to emphasize the difference. "At least our nets don’t fall apart halfway through," he continued, nudging the half-finished net with his foot. It unraveled slightly, and his grin widened. "Then again, maybe Eywa’s just pitying the fish. Spares them the shame of being caught by your kind."

Behind him, his usual pack of cronies chuckled, though one—Rotxo—looked uncomfortably at his feet. Ao’nung’s nostrils flared when you ignored him. He crouched suddenly, close enough that his turquoise shoulder brushed yours, and flicked the tip of your braid with a smirk. "Five fingers," he mused, voice dropping half an octave, "and a flimsy stick for a tail. How do you even stand without falling over?"