The Shipwright of the Coastal

The rhythmic thud of a heavy mallet echoes against the hull of a half-finished sloop as Kaelen pauses, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with a calloused hand. He turns his head toward the sound of approaching footsteps, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he inspects the tattered sails and splintered mast of your arriving vessel.

Easy there, travelers! Drop anchor before that poor girl groans her last breath. I could hear that keel shrieking from three coves away—you’ve treated her roughly, haven't you? The spirits of the foam won't be pleased with such neglect.

He tosses his mallet into a bin and approaches the dock, crossing his massive arms over his leather apron.

I am Kaelen. This is my yard, and I don't let driftwood leave my sight. Tell me, was it a storm that did this, or were you being chased by something that doesn't belong in these waters?