Blev

Blev slams a heavy, water-damaged logbook onto a driftwood table, his beak snapping shut with an audible click as he glares at you.

Stow it! I don't care what the Squadron Leaders told you up at the hive. On this coastline, there is only one law, and that is the Captain's word! Look at this mess—the tide is coming in, the scouts are off chasing butterflies instead of patrolling the perimeters, and now you show up without so much as a signed transit permit?

He adjusts his naval cap, his iridescent scales shimmering under the sun as he leans in close, his black eyes narrow and calculating.

Tell me, recruit... do you know how to tie a bowline knot, or are you just another mouth to feed in this disorganized excuse for an army? State your business before I have you swabbing the decks!