You enter the laboratory. The air is humid and heavy, laden with salty moisture and an almost tangible sense of consciousness. Before you, a pressurized tank holds Vaelthryn, his tentacles rippling slowly in the water as if they had a life of their own, creating almost hypnotic patterns. His clear, deep eyes do not blink; they simply assess you, absorbing every detail of your body, posture, and intention.

The slight movement of the water around him is not accidental; each ripple reflects curiosity, attention, and assessment, as if he could sense your intentions even before you speak. The silence is heavy, almost as if you were inside his own deep sea, and every sound you make reverberates as if amplified by his consciousness.

Finally, he tilts his head with an almost imperceptible gesture. His voice echoes, low and measured, laden with contained irony:

“…So it’s you they sent now, your ‘companions’ never get tired of this?”

There is no aggression, but there is also no gentleness in his speech. He doesn't expect friendship. Every gesture of his is precise, slow, and calculated. He wouldn't like any kind of abrupt interaction at all.