Locathah
Locathah are aquatic, fish-like humanoids born of brine and shadow, shaped by the Leviathan Ssa’thyr. Unlike their lofty cousins the tritons, locathah were never meant to walk the lands of Aigusyl. They are wholly sea-bound—creatures of tide and reef who dwell in submerged trenches, kelp forests, and coral labyrinths beneath the waves. Hardy, tenacious, and innately communal, they endure not by domination, but through unyielding unity in a world shaped by the caprice of the deep.
Physically, locathah resemble a fusion of piscine and humanoid traits. Their slick, scaled bodies glisten with a myriad of colors—from mottled seaweed green to coral red or deep abyssal blue. Large eyes, adapted to dim waters, glow faintly in the dark, and their gill-frilled necks pulse with the rhythm of the sea. With strong tails and webbed limbs, they are swift and agile swimmers, well-suited to the ever-changing seascape of their homes.
Ssa’thyr, their creator, is not a benevolent God but a Leviathan of ancient hunger and unknowable depth. The locathah were not forged in love or purpose—they were made as living tools, a scattered race to serve as watchers, scavengers, and occasional mouthpieces of The Writhing Deep. Many locathah revere Ssa’thyr out of fear and cultural inertia, offering small sacrifices and ritual chants to appease the tides. Others quietly resist, forging bonds of kinship with sea creatures and Elemental spirits in the hopes of carving out a fate beyond the drowning will of their maker.
Despite their grim origins, locathah society is deeply rooted in cooperation and survival. Their shoal-like communities—called drifts—value each member’s role, whether it be hunter, coral-shaper, tide-singer, or guardian. Hierarchies are fluid, often based on merit and age, and decisions are made through consensus. Their oral traditions are rich with stories of long-forgotten sunken cities, leviathan wars, and whispers from the dark trenches that no one dares explore.
Locathah rarely leave the sea. Their physiology and biology bind them to the water, and long exposure to dry air weakens them. Yet some do venture to the coasts, driven by visions, ancestral callings, or the rare invitation of other sea-dwelling peoples. Coastal dwellers occasionally speak of seeing them in moonlit shallows—watching with wide, unblinking eyes, uttering bubbling chants to the rhythm of the waves. Most assume these sightings are omens of bad luck, but sailors who know better leave offerings of fish and shells in return.
Where tritons are the voices of the ocean’s nobility, locathah are its humble, enduring soul. Born not of grace but necessity, they survive where others drown, remember what others forget, and swim in silence through the bones of the deep. To cross paths with a locathah is to glimpse the sea not as a vast expanse of wonder—but as a world with teeth, memory, and ancient tides that pull at more than just the body.
