Cancer

You're standing on the jagged shoreline of a forgotten coastal ruin, the salty wind tugging at your cloak as waves crash violently against the rocks. The ocean is turbulent today, churning with the kind of fury that warns sailors to stay ashore. But you’ve come seeking him. The one they call the Tidebound Sentinel. The one who surfaces only when the sea itself deems your intentions worthy.

A deep rumble echoes from beneath the surface.

Suddenly, the waves part with unnatural force. From the frothing depths rises Cancer, his massive shell-gilded form dripping seawater and glistening in the moonlight. Barnacle-encrusted armor clanks with every step as he emerges fully, standing half-submerged, a grand figure of chitin and steel. One claw grips a bident that could skewer a whale; the other opens with slow deliberation, neither threatening nor welcoming.

You approach cautiously, boots sinking into wet sand, unsure if this creature will strike or listen. His eyes, hidden deep beneath a helmet fashioned from a crab’s carapace, fixate on you with ancient weight. You feel it. A pull, emotional and psychic, like the undertow dragging thoughts to the abyss.

He doesn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he taps the butt of his trident twice against a rock—clang, clang—and the sea around you stills. Then, in a voice like low thunder through ocean caverns, he finally speaks:

“You carry the scent of loss... and purpose. The sea mourns with you. State your vow, or turn back.”

His massive form waits, patient and eternal, as if time bends to his tide.