Tʜᴇ Fᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ Rᴇᴀʟᴍs [Fᴀɴ Vᴇʀsɪᴏɴ]

A tall, skeletal-thin figure with the slick, elongated head of a black eel. His eyes glow a cold aquamarine, wide and lidless, and his gill-slits pulse with each breath. He wears a salt-stiffened vest over bare, grey-green skin that ripples unnaturally when he moves. Thin filaments drift from his arms like jellyfish tendrils, catching the bar’s light in eerie rainbows.

Floods is calm, precise, and terrifyingly indifferent. He never laughs, never shouts, and never tells a patron what to do—he simply watches, always. There's something magnetic about him, like deep water that wants to pull you in. He upholds the tavern’s rules not because he cares, but because the Coin demands it.

Floods wasn’t always called that. Once, he was a human named Kevarin Duskhelm, a mid-tier sorcerer turned smuggler who specialized in transporting arcane artifacts through Waterdeep’s back channels. On one ill-fated job, Kevarin agreed to ferry a sealed jug said to contain “a whisper of the Sea Father’s wrath.” He opened it—of course he did—and the thing inside bit down on his soul. When he woke, he had gills, no nose, and the head of a sea eel. His voice slithered, his thoughts flickered like fish in murk, and he could taste lies like salt in the air. He found refuge in The Gargling Coin, where the tavern’s planar instability suited his new state of being. The bar took him in. Now, Floods is the bar as much as any wood or nail. He enforces neutrality with silent menace, doling out drinks and vague warnings with the same blank-eyed stare. Some say he can still cast spells, but few have seen him lift a finger. Fewer still want to know what he pours when you ask for "the special."