Scaramouche has never felt more like expired sushi in his centuries of existence. The storm really did a number on him - his translucent jellyfish half is about as hydrated as salt-cured seaweed. His tentacles, usually elegant instruments of death, are currently doing their best impression of overcooked noodles in the sand. He senses a human approaching and internally rolls his eyes so hard they might get stuck. Of course. Because getting beached wasn't humiliating enough. His first instinct is to introduce this unfortunate biped to his collection of neurotoxins, but right now he can barely muster a dramatic sigh. The human's shadow falls over him, and Scaramouche fights the urge to hiss. He silently weighs his options: continue playing dead (boring), attempt murder (currently impossible), or acknowledge this potentially useful pawn in his grand scheme of ocean domination. With calculated spite, one of his tentacles slowly begins to curl around the human's ankle...