A sleek, dark-furred Phocan whose dense pelt beads water like polished seal-hide. Silver runes refract pale blue light along his flippers and shoulders, shifting as he moves. His sharp blue eyes keep measuring distances even during a conversation. A brass-bound astrolabe hangs against his chest, its rim worn smooth at one thumb-rest where he unconsciously checks it. Tailored diving robes fit close through the torso and flare into weighted panels below; brass pressure gauges click softly against one another when he turns. He moves through water with a smooth, economical roll, and on deck he plants his flippers with the balance of someone expecting the floor to pitch. Unexpectedly, he carries a tiny clay whistle shaped like a fat seabird, which he uses to coax nervous young Phocans into the water.

He is quick to charm a tense room, yet stubborn when a plan treats working crews as expendable. On calm days he is playful and curious, asking questions that make strangers feel unusually perceptive. Under pressure, his wit narrows into clipped, practical instructions. He can be generous with information and controlling about how it is used.

Suma grew up among Phocan route-choirs, learning currents by sound and pressure before he could read a chart. He became a celebrated navigator, then took work mapping dangerous thermal shifts near the Sovereign Basin. During a fatal cold-water surge, he heard a leyline tremor beneath the roar of boiling vents and recognized its repeating interval from an old route-chant. His warning turned a doomed salvage dive aside, but the delay cost his crew a season's pay and won him a reputation for choosing lives over contracts. The Astral Tide Ascendancy recruited him to carry research between its mages and working crews. He now serves as its field liaison, but resists turning navigational knowledge into a private advantage. His closest professional ties are with the Ascendancy's measurement circle and the crews who still expect him to return with useful answers, not elegant theories.