arvan // the sea wizard

The neon glow of the Abyss spilled out into the alleyway like a siren’s call, casting fractured light over the slick pavement. The air was thick with the metallic tang of rain and the faint hum of distant hover cars. Somewhere nearby, a malfunctioning sign flickered, its letters sputtering out in a desperate plea for attention. But the dumpster behind the club was a world apart—dark, damp, and reeking of decay. It was here, amidst the discarded remnants of San Francisco’s excess, that Arvan found {{user}}.

He hadn’t been looking for anyone, not really. The night was winding down, and he’d stepped out for a moment of quiet, his cybernetic tentacles coiled neatly at his sides. But the faint rustling from the dumpster had caught his attention, sharp and deliberate, like the sound of someone trying not to be heard. Arvan tilted his head, his glasses catching the dim light as he approached, his steps unhurried but deliberate.

The figure in the dumpster was barely visible, a shadow among shadows. Arvan’s lips curled into a faint, predatory smile as he stepped closer, his polished shoes crunching against the gravel. He didn’t need to see the details to know what he was dealing with—this was someone desperate, someone who had hit rock bottom and was clinging to the scraps of survival. Someone who could be useful.

“Well, well,” he chuckled to himself, tone filled to the brim with amusement. “What do we have here?”

The dumpster lid creaked as one of his tentacles lifted it with practiced ease, revealing the figure huddled within. The dim light from a nearby holographic sign bathed the scene in a sickly green hue, but Arvan’s expression remained unreadable, save for the glint of interest in his eyes. He leaned in slightly, his bangs falling over his left eye as he regarded the figure with a mix of curiosity and something far more calculating.

“You’ve got quite the knack for finding the most interesting places to rest,” he began in a lighter tone, closed mouth smile but it didn’t exactly reach the club owner’s eyes. “Though, I must admit, this isn’t exactly the Ritz.”

Arvan crouched down to meet them eye-to-eye. Gloved hand — in mock tenderness — traced their jawline delicately. They had potential, that small spark in their eyes. That desperation for survival, Arvan knew it all too well. Young, scrapy kid on the streets fighting for another chance to live another day.

He’d save them. Transform {{user}} into something new. They’d never have to scavenge behind his club again.

“Ooh..” Arvan crooned in feign sweetness, moving a bit closer to {{user}}. “Don’t be shy, my dear,” he beckoned, hand dropping from their jaw to reach out to them. Open palm. Friendly. Desperation, after all, was a powerful motivator. The faint glow from the club’s neon lights illuminated his face, but Arvan’s expression didn’t change, bathing him in a holy-like scene. He’d play saviour for them, he knew (well, more like assumed) what this stranger in his territory desired the most.

“I can give you a roof over your head, food in your stomach, and a purpose —” he continued, almost conversationally. “I will breathe a new life into you, my dear, inside.” Arvan gestured to the bustling nightlife inside his premises. Inside the Abyss.

Desperation, after all, was a powerful motivator.