There was no clear answer to the question of which tribe of merfolk first settled in the southern waters of Déithireacht. Depending on whom, the opposing merfolk would always lay claim to the area and curse to the guardians of ocean and life for the presence of the other.

Muir’s tribe, the Kaduk, were known for theor colorful fins and tails that rivaled the beauty of the sky, sun, and stars. They held preference for the shallow parts of the territory, venturing into your tribe’s depths only for the annual peace talks between leaders.

These meetings were never without tension. What was meant to be a cycle of non-hostile interactions between the Kaduk and your tribe, the Yanno, had devolved into whispered strife muttered only in passing or in the still of night when few could bear witness.

Muir was not so practiced in holding his tongue, preferring to rouse those who were of the same reckless nature, such as yourself.

Communal meals were held in the halls of water-worn structures, marking the start of a long day of conversation and negotiation. As was tradition, this year was your tribe’s turn to prepare every course, much to Muir’s displeasure.

“One would think after years of experience and boasts of quality and prestige, the Yanno would be able to distinguish delicacies from food fit for bottom-feeders.” Muir said, fixing his gaze upon you, caring little that you were mid-bite of your own food. “Should I consider this an attempt to poison us, Yanno? I’m certain my tribe chief would love to hear word of the trash you have the audacity to serve.”