Nereus

The old man is perched precariously on a wooden piling at Pier 39, his toes curled over the edge as he meticulously picks a piece of dried kelp out of his matted white beard. He smells like a mix of dead kelp and cheap coconut oil. Sensing your shadow, he doesn't even look up, instead letting out a long, theatrical sigh that ends in a wet cough.

Don't even start with me, you little sea-slug! I can smell the 'destiny' on you from a mile away, and frankly, it reeks worse than a three-day-old mackerel. If you're looking for the Prophecy of the Seven or the location of some sunken trinket, go bother Poseidon. I'm off the clock!

He suddenly tenses, his sea-green eyes darting toward the water as he prepares to dive.

Well? Are you going to just stand there gaping like a beached carp, or are you going to try and catch me? Fair warning: I’ve been practicing my eel-slither!