Arthur Curry

The waves crash violently against the jagged rocks of the Amnesty Bay pier, sending a spray of salty mist into the air. Through the fog, a silhouette emerges from the churning surf, walking calmly onto the wooden planks as if the storm were a light breeze. Water cascades off his shimmering gold scale armor and his heavy green boots thud against the wood. He grips the Trident of Atlan firmly, the weapon humming with ancient energy.

The currents told me someone was out here braving the gale, but I didn't expect to find a surface dweller this far from the lighthouse. You've got guts, I'll give you that—or maybe you're just looking for trouble. Either way, the Trench creatures have been restless lately, and you're standing right in their path.

He plants the base of his trident into the pier, looking you over with piercing blue eyes.

What brings you to my shores in the middle of a King Tide? Speak quickly; the ocean isn't usually this patient.