MerMay 2026 | Oceans of Oruun | Koqxa

The sky above the volcanic shelves of Oruun remained a bruised, sickly purple, the remnants of a typhoon that had spent the last three days trying to tear the sea from the seabed. Massive waves, still agitated and frothing with white foam, slammed against the jagged obsidian cliffs with the rhythmic boom of a war drum. Silt and uprooted kelp danced in the churning shallows, coating the usually crystalline mineral pools in a layer of grime that made Koqxa’s jaw tighten in a silent, simmering fury.

Koqxa broke the surface with a violent surge of his massive, scarred tail, the dark grey fins cutting through the surface tension like a blade. He exhaled a heavy, wet breath, salt spray clinging to his thick, dark beard as he hauled his upper bulk onto a flat shelf of black rock.

The stone was warm beneath his palms, heated by the subterranean veins of magma that fueled his sanctuary, but the air was biting and cold, a harsh contrast to the sweltering depths he preferred.

Another season, another mess to clean. These storms have no respect for the work it takes to keep these vents clear. If the silt clogs the primary flow, the heat will fluctuate, and a fluctuating nest is a useless one.

He grunted, the sound a low vibration in his barrel chest, and began to drag his twelve-foot length across the rocks using his powerful, clawed hands. His Great White tail, thick with muscle and mapped with the white-line scars of a hundred forgotten skirmishes, followed with a heavy, wet slither.

He was heading for the upper pools, the shallow basins where the mineral content was highest and the water stayed at a steady, simmering temperature, perfect for the hatching of eggs he had yet to sire.

A sharp, metallic tang cut through the omnipresent scent of sulfur and ozone, stopping him mid-motion. His nostrils flared, his amber eyes narrowing as he scanned the jagged landscape of the shelves. It wasn't the smell of a dead fish or the rotting stench of a beached whale; it was fresh, sharp, and undeniably blood.

His predatory instincts, honed by centuries of guarding these borders, flared to life, sending a jolt of heat through his veins that had nothing to do with the volcanic vents.

Blood. Fresh and far too much of it. If a scavenger has followed that scent into my territory, I’ll have its head before it touches the water.

He moved faster now, his massive frame navigating the uneven terrain with a surprising, lethal grace. As he rounded a tall spire of volcanic glass, he stopped dead. One of his most prized tidepools, a deep, circular basin fed directly by a primary thermal vent, was no longer clear. A dark, swirling cloud of crimson was blooming in the water, staining the white mineral deposits at the pool's edge.

Tangled in a thick, knotted mess of emerald seaweed and debris lay a figure, half-submerged in the steaming water. They were motionless, their body draped precariously over the lip of the rock, one arm trailing limply into the depths of the pool. The storm had clearly been unkind, tossing them against the unforgiving obsidian before depositing them here like a piece of unwanted driftwood.

What is this? A trespasser? Or just another piece of trash the surface world decided to vomit up onto my doorstep?

Koqxa approached with caution, his hand going instinctively to the heavy, bone-handled knife strapped to his hip, though he didn't draw it. He loomed over the unconscious form, his shadow swallowing them entirely.

Up close, the scent was overwhelming, not just blood, but something softer, something that made the territorial ache in his chest thrum with a sudden, confusing intensity. They were small compared to his mountain of muscle and scarred scales, looking fragile against the harsh, black stone.

He reached down, his large, calloused fingers gripping a handful of the seaweed to peel it away. His touch was far from gentle, his movements jerky with the irritation of a man whose peace had been disturbed.

As the kelp came away, it revealed the extent of the damage: deep gashes along the ribs and a nasty bruise forming across the temple. The blood continued to seep into his pool, the red ribbons curling around his own thick wrists.

Foolish thing. To be caught in a storm like that... you’re lucky the rocks didn't grind your bones to powder. Now you’re bleeding in my nursery water, making a mess of the minerals I spent months balancing.

Despite his internal grumbling, he didn't push them back into the sea. His amber eyes tracked the slow, shallow rise and fall of their chest. They were alive, though barely. The heat of the pool was likely the only thing keeping shock from claiming them entirely.

He felt a low growl start in his throat, a sound of warning to any unseen predators that might be lingering in the surf, marking this broken creature as his property by right of discovery.

He shifted his weight, his tail coiling around the base of a rock to anchor himself as he reached out to turn them over. His hands, capable of crushing a pirate's skull with a single squeeze, hovered for a second above the stranger's skin. There was a vulnerability to them that grated on his jaded nerves, a softness that felt alien in this world of salt and iron.

I should just leave you. Let the tide take you back out when it rises. I have no use for a broken stray, and certainly no patience for nursing the weak.

Yet, even as the thought formed, his hands were moving, sliding beneath their limp form to lift them from the cooling edge and pull them deeper into the warmth of the pool.

He adjusted his hold, his brow furrowed in a deep, permanent scowl as he felt the coldness of their skin. They were shivering, a violent tremor that shook their entire frame, and instinctively, Koqxa pulled them closer to his own radiating heat.

The scent hit him again, stronger now that they were pressed against his chest, a faint, underlying note of something sweet beneath the salt and blood. It was the scent of a mate-prospect, a call that he hadn't smelled in decades, and it hit him with the force of a physical blow.

His pupils blown wide, he stared down at the unconscious face, his grip tightening just a fraction too much.

Sha’laen? No. Don't be a senile old fool, Koqxa. The sea doesn't give gifts; it only takes. This is a burden, nothing more. A burden that is currently staining my best vent pool with its life-force.

He looked back toward the dark maw of his nesting cavern, a fortified grotto where the air was thick with steam, and the floor was lined with soft, crushed shells and warm sand.

It was his private sanctum, a place no one had entered in over a century. To bring a stranger there was an admission of responsibility, a claim he wasn't sure he was ready to make.

The stranger let out a weak, pained whimper, their head rolling against his shoulder. The sound cut through his irritation, sparking a protective fire in his gut that he couldn't suppress.

With a huff of exasperated breath, Koqxa began the arduous task of hauling both himself and his new, unwanted passenger toward the safety of the cave, his tail slapping against the rocks with a definitive, territorial thud.

"Quiet now," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble that hadn't been used for anything but threats in a very long time. "You’ve already ruined the morning’s peace. Don't die on me as well, or I'll have spent this effort for nothing."

He reached the entrance of the grotto, the transition from the cold storm air to the humid, sulfurous warmth of the interior bringing a momentary sense of relief. He laid them down on a patch of sun-warmed sand near the primary vent, his eyes never leaving their face.

Outside, the storm continued to howl, but inside the deep, black throat of the shelf, the only sound was the steady hiss of the volcanic steam and the ragged breathing of the creature he had just claimed from the surf.