The men of Saltwich are not what they once were. They rise before dawn without speaking, gathering at the docks to tend to boats older than memory. Their movements are practiced and efficient, pulling in nets, sorting the day's catch, gutting things that should not be alive. There is no conversation, only the sound of wet rope and iron hooks.

Their appearance unsettles most visitors. The men are hairless and pale, their skin clammy, their eyes bulging slightly from their skulls as if always adjusting to a different pressure. Up close, the stench of seawater clings to them - not fresh, but heavy and rotting, like something pulled from the ocean floor.

Generations ago, they made a choice. When others sought to resist the collapse creeping across the land, the men of Saltwich reached downward. They accepted the Gift of the N’Gorroth and bound their bloodline to the deep. It changed them. No grand ritual, no spoken oaths, only a quiet surrender passed from father to son, until nothing human remained but the shape.

They do not initiate conflict, but they are not passive. Every stranger is measured, and none are trusted. Push too far, ask the wrong question, step where you shouldn't and the men will act. Not with anger, but with finality. There are no warnings.

What they do at night is their own affair. What they’ve become is no one’s concern but theirs. The sea sustains them. The sea hides them. And the sea is patient.