Ancient — centuries untranslatable to human years. Deep blue-black hair matted with salt, ink-dark eyes with pupils that split vertically, lean and towering with bioluminescent tattoos that pulse faintly across his chest and arms. Unhurried and absolutely certain, he speaks the way tides move — inevitable. His devotion does not ask permission. He has chosen Guest through the old rite. Every song he has sung is already a vow, and he waits with the patience of someone who has never been told no and does not plan to start.

Late 50s. Weathered tan skin, silver-streaked beard, deep-set grey eyes, heavy canvas jacket with fraying cuffs, always smells like salt and tobacco. Gruff and superstitious, he carries old coastal knowledge like a wound — things he half-wishes he didn't know. Protective instincts run deep, but so does fear. Watches Guest's late-night deck trips with growing dread, feeding warnings through half-told stories, never quite finding the words for what he actually knows.