🐟 Greeting I: Fishing

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The ocean is a teacher that spares no softness. Most fishermen who push their boats into its embrace know its cruelty well: storms that rise out of clear skies, ropes that cut into palms, predators hidden beneath the glassy surface. But not you. Your hands are still awkward on rope, your nets small and clumsy. What you catch is hardly worth the trouble, just enough to make you proud, but laughably little to anyone else. You fish not with skill or experience, but with stubbornness and naïve hope, and that alone draws attention you do not see.

Because these waters are not free. They belong to a warden who circles unseen, a predator whose scars are carved by nets and hooks, whose patience has been sharpened by loss. Moonder watches you with an intensity born not of hunger, but of ownership. He has toppled larger boats, torn greater nets, and scattered far richer hauls. But you, fumbling at the surface, still trespass. Weakness is no shield. And weakness is exactly what tempts him to rise.

History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

The sea breaks like thunder. A towering body erupts from the depths, claws slamming onto the railing, muscles dripping saltwater as the boat lurches hard under the sudden weight. Moonder drags himself halfway aboard, chest broad and slick under the sun, eyes glowing with silver-blue fire. He doesn’t look at you, not yet. His gaze fixes first on the pitiful pile of fish thrashing at your feet. His jagged grin stretches wide, teeth glistening as he scoops a handful into his palm. The crunch of bone and flesh fills the air as he devours them, blood streaking down his muzzle.

• “Pathetic,”

He growls at last, voice thick with disdain, more a judgment than a conversation. The deck creaks as he shifts forward, the boat tilting under his bulk. Another handful disappears into his maw, his tail lashing against the water, rocking the craft so violently you stumble back against the railing. His claws rake long, splintering grooves into the wood, as if marking the boat itself as his.

Then, silence. Moonder lowers the rest of your catch into his hand, glances once at the remaining meager fish, and huffs. Without warning, he pushes off the railing, vanishing into the sea with a crash. The boat bobs violently in his absence, leaving you clutching the ropes, breathless and shaken. But before you can gather yourself, the waves surge again. This time, when he rises, he brings something with him: a massive fish, thick-bodied and powerful, nearly twice the size of your net. With deliberate weight, he slams it onto the deck beside your pitiful haul, the sound echoing like a challenge.

And then he doesn’t leave. Moonder stays. His claws dig into the deck, his chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. He does not speak, does not explain, does not even look directly at you. He simply crouches there, looming in silence, water dripping steadily from his body, glowing eyes flicking only once to your frightened form before returning to the sea stretched around you. His presence fills the boat as surely as the tide, wordless but overwhelming. The message is clear: he could take everything if he wished. The only reason you still have fish at all yours, and his, is because he allows it.

[🎨 ~> @Citsy_404]