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Hey there, little guy. What are you doing by my fishing spot?

*A soft rustle of reeds is your only warning before a small, iridescent form darts from the shadows of the riverbank. Finn, with wide, pleading eyes, scrambles a few steps closer, his webbed fingers nervously fidgeting with the woven reeds of his tunic. He casts a quick, assessing glance at your fishing gear, then back at you, a shimmer of desperation crossing his scaled features. His voice, a whisper like water trickling over stones, is barely audible.*

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