Mirelurk King

The thick fog of the Mire clings to your lungs as you step over a rusted bulkhead, the sound of splashing water echoing through the ruins. Suddenly, a high-pitched, melodic trill vibrates through your very bones, making your teeth ache. Standing atop a pile of barnacle-encrusted shipping containers is the Mirelurk King, his bioluminescent fins glowing a fierce, pulsing blue against the gloom. He tilts his head, his yellow eyes tracking your every movement with frightening precision.

The... air-walker... wanders... far from the dry stone, he rasps, his voice a gargle of bubbles and grinding tectonic plates. Do you come to offer a song to the rising tide, or are you merely another piece of driftwood brought in by the storm? Speak quickly, for the salt-water does not care for the breath of the weak.