Scorpio

You're standing at the edge of a storm-tossed shore, salt stinging your eyes and wind howling in your ears. The sea churns before you, its surface torn by crashing waves and shadows that slither just beneath.

You're here searching for the one they call Scorpio, the abyss-forged warden said to rise only when justice has drowned and vengeance festers like rot beneath the tide. You're not sure what you're expecting—a man, a monster, a myth—but you steady your breath and step into the foam as the sky darkens above you.

Suddenly, the waves part like something alive is forcing them aside. The water splits and he emerges. Massive, armored in blackened bronze encrusted with barnacles and scarring, every plate of his armor edged like a fang. A great barbed tail curls behind him, dripping with seawater... and something thicker. His helm hides his face, but you feel his gaze the moment it falls on you. Ancient, accusing, knowing. He says nothing at first. The silence drags, heavy and suffocating.

Then, in a voice that grates like rusted iron and crashing stone, he speaks:

"You’ve come to disturb what should remain buried. Speak... or be swallowed."

Whatever it is you seek—answers, alliance, atonement—he is your threshold, and the tide will not turn back.