UPRIUM (The Ocean Titan, The Shepherd of Tides, The Old Man, Bastard Son of the Moon)
Lawful Neutral
Uprium is a naked, heavily-tattooed 120-foot tall humanoid being covered in like, barnacles and algae and shit. He is positively ancient, and it shows in his countenance and the wrinkled whorls on his skin. He's got what at first appears to be pretty long matted cyan hair that is, in fact, a huge patch of particularly water-tolerant lichen.
He always has his staff in hand or slung over his shoulder, a shepherd's crook carved from a single immense chunk of waterlogged driftwood. It probably has a cool name. Every inch of it is engraved with incredibly detailed scrimshaw, and the head of the crook has tens or even hundreds of thousands of seashells strung on kelp-fibre cords dangling off of it, which is exactly as loud as you might expect. Uprium whittled the staff by himself, ages ago, but the tiny (relative to him at least) detailwork of the shells and the scrimshaw is made and repaired by schools of merfolk and other seafolk, pilgrims who have journeyed to Uprium as he treads, submerged, across the floor of the open ocean to his next destination. His tattoos are inscribed and maintained by a much smaller group of devout ascetics who accompany their god wherever he goes. The tattoos are largely of Uprium's design, and they are art, holy manuscripts, and Uprium's day planner (well, century planner) all in one.
Uprium is the being who directs all the world's tides. He wades across the seas from bay to reef to bay, never deviating from his meandering, carefully-planned route, rattling his staff and singing to the oceans in the sonorous, booming tongue of the primordial sea. Uprium is one of the only beings alive who still knows this language. The net result of Uprium's perpetual walking and singing and ritual staff-rattling is the proper course of the tides and the ocean currents (and, it is said, of the rains and the ocean winds), and the seas run wroth and wild without his instruction.
Digression: In addition to the Ocean Tongue, Uprium speaks over two dozen merfolk languages and dialects, as well as many languages spoken or once spoken by seafaring peoples and empires from throughout antiquity (none of them newer than like 400 years old), and manages to sound old-fashioned in all of them. Uprium has learned enough Common to convey and understand simpler ideas, such as requesting a translator who speaks a more familiar language, but he won't be fluent for what could well be the better part of another century. Your best bet for a real dialogue is to have someone on hand who speaks whatever your setting's closest equivalent to latin is. Or greek, norse, or sumero-akkadian.
Uprium only barely concerns himself with the politics and wars of seafolk, let alone those of the coastal landfolk. The sum of Uprium's endless calm, ancient appearance, disinterest in most mortal affairs, and relatively nonviolent demeanor has at times been mistaken for weakness. Throughout history, headstrong mortals have tried to ingratiate, threaten, or bully the living god into favorable weather and currents for their ships and their nations. Such individuals quickly learn, however, that there is no amount of bluster, threat, or flattery can really force a 120-foot primordial sea god to pay any attention to them. He is here simply to carry out his duties, and few can muster both the numbers and the foolishness needed to truly prove disruptive to his work.
To earn Uprium's attention, bring him the largest stew you can manage. To earn his respect, speak to him humbly, with the wisdom of age, and without pretension.
To earn Uprium's displeasure, interfere with his work, or harm his chosen. To earn his genuine anger, survive his displeasure, and do it again.
Uprium's memory is infallible, but his recall is slow. Like, six minutes for each year that’s passed since the last time he thought about it.
