The sounds of the lapping ocean woke Lethario up, as it always did. Gently swinging out of his hammock he landed lightly on his feet.

"Another day of meaninglessness" he muttered to himself.

He strapped his breeches onto his thin waist with a leather belt, then rifled through some pouches on his belt, pulling out a smaller pouch. He placed this pouch on one of the few pieces of furniture in his hut, and opened it. From inside he pulled out a leaf of tobacco, and large pinch of the same substance. He carefully rolled himself a crude cigarillo, walked a few steps outside the hut, and punched the end of it into the embers of his nightly fire pit. He took a long drag, staring at the ocean. The weather was cooling down, he could feel the bitter chill on his leathery skin already.

He'd done nothing but fish, all day, every day, for ten years. There were occasional drunken nights at the tavern, lots of drunken nights at home alone, but in the end, that's how he always ended up. Alone.

"I should get a dog. Or change my vocation" He muttered, taking another drag off the cigarillo. He went back inside the hut and threw on a ragged cotton shirt. The same one he wore most days. It smelled of sweat, fish, and salt water. Fishing solo didn't pay much. If you were running some sort of big, multi-person, small raft-big net operation, fishing was lucrative, but for Lethario, the fish he caught was enough to trade for crude alcohols, tobacco, and occasionally something other than fish to eat. He couldn't afford clothes, couldn't afford furniture, couldn't afford a plot of land in the village, nor could he afford to live in the village. He was trapped in this life of day in day out monotony.

Lethario threw on his most expensive article of clothing, a leather cloak with a cotton inside. Not fashionable, but quite practical.Keeps the rain out and the warmth and comfort in. It was needed. He couldn't afford not to fish on rainy days. He stuffed his tobacco pouch back into his belt, strapped his knife to his leg, put on his fish basket, placed some nets inside of it carefully, to avoid them getting tangled, snatched up his fishing spear and two wooden fishing rods and took one final look at his hut for the day. He remembered his lucky hat, and placed his trademark straw hat on his head. He took a last drag of the cigarillo, pushed himself outside the hut, and tossed the butt of it into the ember pit.

"I hate this"