“Uhm… Hello there?”

Balthazar gave the man standing over the crater a wave and a forced smile, attempting to come across as friendly as he hoped the human would be.

The old man was tall and lanky, but his bulky coat was the first thing Balthazar noticed. It had once been brown, though it seemed the sun had bleached it into a patchwork of lighter shades long ago. The skin beneath it had not fared much differently. Deeply tanned and rough as old leather, his face was framed by wisps of gray hair hanging like seaweed and an unruly salt-and-pepper beard that suggested shaving wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

“Well, ain’t that something,” the man said.

“Oh, right,” the crustacean said, rolling his eyestalks upon realizing what always happened when people met him for the first time. “Yes, I am a giant crab, and yes, I talk.”

“Nah, that ain’t what surprised me,” the man said.

“It… wasn’t? Usually people tend to be pretty taken aback by meeting a chatting crustacean for the first time.”

“I’ve been a fisherman for a long time. That sort of thing don’t faze me no more. What surprised me is the fact that I expected an adventurer down there, not a yapping crab.” The man paused and rubbed his chin. “You aren’t an adventurer, right?”

“No! Of course I’m not!” Balthazar quickly replied before pausing and hesitating. “Well, I mean… No. I’m definitely not an adventurer. I’m a merchant, that’s all.”

“Is that so?” the human said, sounding almost amused by the crab’s statement.

Balthazar’s eyestalks stood up suddenly with realization.

“Wait! Did you just say you’re a fisherman?”

“Sure did,” the old man said.

“Uhhhm…” the merchant apprehensively said. “So are we going to have a problem, or…”

“Why would we?” the other asked calmly.

“You know,” said Balthazar. “You’re a fisherman. I’m, well…”

“Seafood with opinions?” the old man stated plainly.

“I was going to say ‘fish-adjacent’ here, but sure, whatever. Point being… Should I be worried?”

The fisherman chuckled.

“Nah, don’t worry. I only fish fish. Not interested in your kind.”

Balthazar cocked an eyestalk at him. “My kind?!”

“Shellfish,” the man explained. “I’m severely allergic to it, so you’re safe.”

“Oh, alright,” the crab said. “That’s good. I mean… not for you, of course, but for me.”

The fisherman placed his hands on his hips and sniffled.

“So, you’re going to sit down there in that crater all day, or do you need some help getting out?”

“Oh, right,” Balthazar said, looking around at the big hole he was in and readjusting his backpack. “I can get out on my own. Just give me a moment.”

“Alright then,” the old man said, standing back and observing quietly while the crab struggled to climb up the sand over the rim of the crater.

He made no further effort to offer any help, and Balthazar made an effort to not let himself ask either.

“Name’s Alden, by the way,” the fisherman said once the crab had finally gotten to ground level with him.

Surprisingly, the old man did not offer him a handshake, like most humans so foolishly tended to do when first meeting the merchant. This told Balthazar that Alden must have really been someone experienced with meeting crustaceans.

“I’m Balthazar,” he said with a quick wave. “And if you don’t mind me asking… where the hell am I?”

“Hmm, right,” Alden said. “You said you’re a merchant, not an adventurer, but I suppose I should still give you the same treatment I give all the other newcomers.”

“I hope it’s not a forced sponge bath,” Balthazar muttered.

“It ain’t,” the fisherman declared placidly.

“Oh, good. Then go on, please.”

Old Alden cleared his throat—without much effect, as his voice continued sounding every bit as rugged as before—and turned slightly to present the rest of the beach to the crab.

“Welcome to Battershoal.”

Balthazar tilted his eyestalks to look at the long stretch of sand ending in grassy dunes with nothing more to them than the blue sky above and the even bluer ocean next to it.

“Yes, it’s… very nice,” the merchant said. “This… Battershoal. I take it that’s the name of this beach? Your beach, I’m guessing?”

The fisherman blew air out of his nose in slight amusement.

“It ain’t, and it ain’t.”

“Excuse me?” said Balthazar.

“Let me explain while we go to my cabin. I’ve got a pot of soup waiting there.”

The crab squinted at the old man.

“It better not be crab soup.”

This time, the fisherman audibly chuckled.

“Once again… It ain’t.”

Alden turned without another word and started down the beach at an unhurried pace. His worn boots hardly seemed to sink into the sand, each step finding firm footing with the practiced ease of someone who had walked those shores every day for decades. Balthazar hurried after him, his eight legs making far less graceful progress as they alternated between firm wet sand and softer patches that threatened to swallow his feet.

As they walked, the merchant took in his surroundings more carefully. The beach stretched for what seemed like miles in either direction, broken only by clusters of driftwood, ribbons of dried seaweed, and the occasional weather-smoothed boulder peeking through the sand. Gentle waves rolled lazily onto the shore, their steady rhythm accompanied by the whistling of the wind overhead. Beyond the dunes, however, there was... nothing. No rooftops. No windmills. No smoke rising from chimneys. Just endless blue sky meeting rolling hills of pale grass.

“So,” the crab started. “If Battershoal isn’t the name of this beach, what is it?”

“It’s not the name of the beach,” Alden replied without turning his gaze back. “It’s the name of this whole place.”

“Right… Very enlightening,” said Balthazar. “And what is this place? Where am I on the continent?”

“Continent?” the old man calmly asked.

“Yes?” the increasingly nervous crustacean said. “The continent of Mantell?”

“Nah, mister. You ain’t on the continent no more. Battershoal is the name of this here island we’re standing on.”

“Island?!” Balthazar exclaimed, realizing he must have flown even farther than he thought.

“Yep,” the fisherman said as they finished walking around a small sand dune. “And we’re here, by the way.”

Nestled against the grassy dunes stood a modest cabin that looked as though it had slowly grown out of the beach itself. Sun-bleached planks, a crooked chimney, and countless careful repairs gave it the quiet charm of a home that had been lived in for many seasons. Outside, fishing nets swayed gently in the breeze beside wooden racks lined with drying fish, while neat stacks of firewood waited next to a single chair placed facing the coast.

“You live here?” Balthazar said, his eyes still fixed on the wooden shack.

“I do. Why?” Old Alden replied, giving the crab the side eye and raising his eyebrow ever so slightly.

“No, nothing. I like it. It seems so… peaceful,” the merchant said, gaze lost on the fisherman’s home like someone experiencing a bout of nostalgia.

“Thanks. I like it that way,” the man said, his expression relaxing again. “So, where were we?”

“Oh, right!” Balthazar exclaimed, both his pincers and his mind snapping out of his trance. “Did you just say we’re on an island?!”

“Sure did,” Alden said, placing both hands in the pockets of his pants.

“Alright, I don’t remember ever seeing ‘Battershoal’ on any of my maps back at the bazaar, but it’s not like I tried to memorize everything on them,” the crab said, more to himself than to the fisherman. “It’s just an island. No big deal. Hey, so, tell me, how far off the coast of Mantell are we exactly?”

“Pretty dang far, I’d reckon,” the old man said with a casual sniffle.

“Thanks, very specific.”

“You’re welcome,” the unfazed fisherman said.

“Fine. No problem. I can handle this,” Balthazar said, taking a deep breath. “Just tell me where I can find the nearest port with a ship or boat to take me back to the continent, please.”

The corners of the man’s mouth curled up in a discreet smile of someone being amused by an old joke he had heard countless times before but still found funny.

“A boat out of Battershoal? No, I don’t think you really understand where you are yet.”

Balthazar swallowed dry. “What do you mean?”

Old Alden stared off into the endless sea, hands still in his pockets.

“Nobody who comes to Battershoal can ever leave.”