Oliver Gnaiigof’n

Bio removed from bios channel. Link available here.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oa4eSElpwT8nMR-2CNnd6bKVnd-mhksdhtQUrddRqgg/edit
Oliver, 11th Sea Scribe Gnaiigof’n, son of tides, seeker of high seas
His peers had always characterized the ocean as a cruel mistress that tempted even the most steeled men, inviting them into her merciless depths. Even as a child, he felt a deep kind of attachment to the all-consuming body; maybe it was his soul that drew him to be a fisherman. His formative years were spent learning the slang of the sailors, a conversational jargon that flowed like no other, peppered with friendly insults that reminded one of the crowd they stood with. When he became a man, or at least thought himself one, his first action was to find his own boat and ride that daring mother that always invited him with a tempting shudder of the water. He had only been 16.
Forager was his vessel, his loyal steed, and together they shoved off from the northern shores and into an undiscovered stretch. With that howl of bitter brine in his mane of hair, his name was cast off into the rolling horizon and forgotten, as was the loyalty of the land. When she tested him with lashing rain and skies pregnant with heavy, black clouds, he retreated into his quarters and invited hell onto his deck. He found himself writing during those vicious storms. His shelves were full of the stories he’d been weaned on, tales of men dancing with blades, of fair maidens saved by noble pirates, of hungry whales swallowing doomed vessels. Such yarns kept him company during an admittedly lonely journey.
What the naive fisherman failed to consider upon the start of his grand journey was the devious nature of the ocean; there came a day when the tide was ravenous and the waves slammed the sides of his boat. It groaned and heaved, but he pressed onward, despite the warning from his Forager. There was a horrific crack, like a god’s axe had embedded itself into the ribs of his vessel, and then the gut-wrenching sound of water eagerly rushing into the decks beneath him. When he rushed out to examine the damage, he found a massive hole in the worn planks of the pale bow. He was quickly sinking beneath hungry waves. He knew his fate. The ocean, as furious as it was, opened its soggy arms to him lovingly. The ship beneath him was quickly pressed against her chest, and the lonely captain only had the thought to follow his loyal friend. He was swallowed in the jaws of a historical squall. He had only been at sea for five months.
As his weary eye sunk into the depths, he saw the hint of robed men waiting just beyond the twisting waves. Everything became silent, hushed by the rush of sudden darkness. He could feel the very seams of his being unravelling, pulled by eager fingers. He couldn’t move, firmly secured by the arm of the ocean.
His soul knew death.
Suddenly, though, a fiery pain groped his lungs; had he swallowed a bought of water? Quick breaths stirred his chest, and he sputtered a bit. But… he was alive. The realization of his surroundings made him feel unusually alive, even in a moment of certain death. Vision was brought to his dying eyes, and such a gift made him aware of the presence of an audience of gleaming, feline, amber eyes. All he could see was inky blackness, interrupted only by those curious gazes. They drew him into their arms, cloaked in a comforting cloth, and a gentle sleep found him. His identity, pain, and struggles were washed away into the heart of the sea. In his dreams, strange voices whispered words of the ocean, of storms, and of a son who found his way home. It all faded into a strange static, but his heart discerned the highlights of the foreign speak.
You are Oliver, 11th Scribe Gnaiigof’n, son of tides, and you belong to the ocean. She welcomes the return of her child.
Back then, Oliver was a headstrong, naive, and foolish boy. In his time as a scribe, he calmed considerably, but maintained that childish sort of drive that leads one to inspiration and discovery. As the tide’s son, he was intense, yet ever changing; his opinions were rarely steady. He kept most people at a comfortable distance. Oliver’s family was long forgotten, and he couldn’t maintain casual friendships, so he opted to keep others out and focused on his duties. He kept a sharp tongue and wit about him. He returned to the shore rather often to reminisce over his distant past.
As a Scribe, ever young and slowly aging, he maintained a characteristic youth. He was careful to care for himself and remain eternally young, or at least, to appear as such. Though he had aged into the twilight of his thirties, he looked no older than twenty. Such was the blessing of his kind.