Irik of the Brine — Smoked-Fishmonger & Pickler

Name: Irik of the Brine
Race: Tortle
Role: : Smoked-Fishmonger & Pickler
Appearance: Irik’s domed shell is sea-worn slate with pale tidal striations; the scutes are carved with tiny knotwork that tells his life’s catch. His leathery skin is olive-brown, his eyes a calm brine-green behind a pair of wire pince-nez. A heavy sealskin apron hangs over a wool tunic, and a string of spice gourds, bone tasting spoons, and iron keys clacks softly as he moves. He carries a two-pronged fish gaff that doubles as a walking pole, and a short cleaver polished by decades of honest work. He smells faintly of alder smoke, salt, and cloves.

Backstory

Raised in a smoke-yard on the storm-lashed Shattered Coast, Irik followed the fish runs and learned to read weather by taste: metal for lightning, pepper for gale. Years ago he took a barge inland and kept going until the lake-roads of Frosthold met him with hungry caravans and empty cellars. He stayed, built The Brinewake—a stout smokehouse and pickling yard off the Frozen Quay—and began turning lakewhite, char, and river eels into durable rations that cross the Whispering Tundra. Irik supplies Borik’s crews, stocks Thrain’s convoy caches, and swaps warming recipes with Maela. When storms pen the town in tight, he is the one handing out a heel of brown bread, a cup of pickle brine to cut the cold, and a quiet story about tides that always return.