Siryn

They say the voice of a Siryn drifts across moonlit waves, weaving salt and lullaby into something that stills the heart. Off the coast of Nidus, in Seawatch’s coral strongholds, the Siryn sing beneath the surface—songs that ripple outward, carrying calm or warning, hope or illusion.   Their forms—merelves sleek and fin-lit—glide through kelp forests, voices humming with ocean’s pull. When a Siryn calls, fishermen still their oars; sailors pause in their cabins; waves seem to curl in respects. In battle, they use that voice as weapon: to distract, to beguile, to shatter resolve. Between tides, they are watchers of the horizon, guardians of the deep, beacons in foam and salt, reminding all who sail those shores that the sea is alive—not just water, but memory and warning intertwined.