Finnegan 'Fin' Wavecrest — The Guppy's Guardian

Ability Scores

STR

16

+3

DEX

14

+2

CON

15

+2

INT

12

+1

WIS

13

+1

CHA

14

+2

Combat

Armor Class: 17; Scale mail + DEX modifier
Hit Points: 56; Hit Dice: 6d10
Initiative: +2
Speed: 30 ft., swim 30 ft.
Proficiency: +3
Passive Perception: 14

Attacks

Rapier+61d8+3 piercing

Handaxe (thrown)+61d6+3 slashing

Personality

Calls everyone under four feet tall 'guppy' or 'little barnacle.' Corrects posture mid-conversation with a gentle tap of his knuckles. Hums old war shanties while cooking breakfast for sixteen. Never raises his voice—his disappointed 'We'll discuss this after supper' is more terrifying than any shout. Keeps a mental tally of every child's favorite food, fear, and dream.

Ideal

Protection. Every soul deserves a chance to grow without fear, and he will be the tide wall that keeps the storm at bay.

Bond

The twelve original orphans he pulled from the wreckage, and every child who has passed through The Barnacle House since. He keeps a small wooden chest containing a pebble from each child who has 'graduated' and moved on to their own lives.

Flaw

Cannot turn away a child in need, even when the cupboards are nearly bare and the roof needs patching. Will exhaust himself to the point of collapse rather than admit he needs help, viewing self-sacrifice as the baseline cost of parenthood.

Backstory

Finnegan Wavecrest once commanded a phalanx of triton warriors in the crushing darkness of the Sunless Trench, where sahuagin claws scraped against shield-walls and every maneuver meant life or death for his troops. He earned three commendations for valor, lost count of the scars on his knuckles, and learned that leadership wasn't about glory—it was about bringing everyone home. Then came the surface shipwreck during a diplomatic mission: a merchant vessel torn apart by a rogue storm, bodies in the waves, and twelve terrified orphans clinging to driftwood. Finnegan pulled them from the sea one by one, and when no family came forward to claim them, he simply… stayed. He sold his ceremonial trident, bought a crumbling coastal building he renamed 'The Barnacle House,' and turned his warrior's discipline into something infinitely harder: raising children.

Now he runs the orphanage like a benevolent drill sergeant, teaching reading with the same intensity he once taught shield formations. Mornings are porridge and multiplication tables; afternoons are wooden-sword drills in the courtyard, where he corrects footwork with the patience of a saint and the precision of a master duelist. His guppies—as he affectionately calls them—range from a half-orc girl who wants to be a blacksmith to a nervous gnome boy who hides picture books under his pillow. Finnegan doesn't care if they become heroes or bakers or fisherfolk, as long as they're safe, literate, and capable of defending themselves. He has no interest in politics, prophecies, or the petty squabbles of surface kingdoms. His war now is against empty stomachs, bullies, and the terror of a child waking from nightmares. And he's never been more fiercely devoted to a cause.

The Barnacle House is always one donation away from disaster, but somehow Finnegan makes it work—through odd mercenary contracts he takes only when the children are safely asleep, through bartering his considerable tactical expertise to merchant guilds, and through sheer stubborn refusal to let any of his guppies go hungry. The other orphanage matrons think he's mad. The local militia thinks he's a genius. The children think he hung the moon. And Finnegan? He just keeps peeling apples, mending torn tunics, and teaching a Tiefling girl named Ember that a proper riposte starts with your back foot.

Abilities & Actions

Guppy's Lesson (Riposte, 4/short rest)

When a creature misses Finnegan with a melee attack, he can use his reaction and expend one superiority die to make a melee weapon attack against that creature, narrating the counter as a teaching moment ('See? Always keep your guard UP, guppy!'). On a hit, he adds the superiority die (d8) to the attack's damage roll. If any of his orphans are watching, they gain advantage on their next attack roll as they mimic his technique.

Protective Feint (Goading Attack, 4/short rest)

When Finnegan hits a creature with a weapon attack, he can expend one superiority die to deal an extra 1d8 damage and goad the target. The target must succeed on a DC 13 Wisdom saving throw or have disadvantage on all attack rolls against targets other than Finnegan until the end of his next turn. He typically uses this while positioned between threats and his children, calling out 'Eyes on me, not the guppies!'

Drill Sergeant's Rally (Action Surge, 1/short rest)

On his turn, Finnegan can take one additional action. He often uses this in emergencies to both strike a threat and simultaneously grab a child to pull them to safety, moving with the battle-honed efficiency of someone who has practiced protecting others for decades.

Amphibious Caretaker

Finnegan can breathe air and water. His swim speed is 30 feet. Once per day, he can cast Fog Cloud (as a 2nd-level spell) and Gust of Wind, using his connection to the sea. He often uses Fog Cloud to obscure The Barnacle House during dangerous situations, and Gust of Wind to dry laundry faster—much to the children's delight.

The Ladle and the Blade (Second Wind, 1/short rest)

As a bonus action, Finnegan can regain 1d10 + 6 hit points. Mechanically, this represents his warrior's endurance; narratively, it's the moment he takes a breath, remembers why he's fighting, and finds the strength to stand between danger and his family one more time.

DM Notes

Voice: Warm baritone with a slight underwater resonance, like waves rolling over stones. Calls everyone 'guppy,' 'little barnacle,' or 'my dear small fry.' Sample dialogue: 'Now, now—if you're going to throw a punch, commit to it. Half-hearted jabs just get you clobbered. Here, let's try again, and this time pretend I'm a very large, very rude lobster.' His signature gesture is the 'parade rest' stance, hands clasped behind his back, even when holding a spatula. When genuinely pleased, his webbed ears flick forward and his lavender skin deepens to violet. When protecting his children, his entire demeanor shifts—shoulders square, voice drops, and his polite smile vanishes into cold tactical focus. The deal-breaker: threaten one of his guppies, and you'll discover that a retired triton commander remembers every brutal lesson from the Sunless Trench. He reacts to genuine praise about his parenting with flustered pride, to danger with instant calculation, and to a child's nightmare by sitting beside their bed until dawn, humming sea-shanties. His greatest joy is watching a child master something they thought impossible—whether it's reading their first full sentence or landing their first proper parry.