Morgan Dead Rife
It’s not a man, it’s a weapon that sharpens itself against the rocks of the seabed. His body is an armor made of polyps and corals that can’t be tested for a core or blade. He doesn’t say-- he pronounces sentences with a squeaky whisper that makes his blood bleed out. He’s not looking for gold; he’s collecting debts. And it is his duty to serve the ocean forever, which has become his grave, his prison, and his body.
Sculpting character
The gold was chased by a stranger, damn it. The steering was left in his hand when his ship faded. Now he is in the reefs and sands, where the octopus whispers forever, and the fire of the silent alarm burns in his bones cold. He watches over what is on the bottom, and does not forgive.
The character in different positions
Turn Table