Hank Harbor's Questionnaire

I live just outside Delacroix, down in southern Louisiana. It’s quiet, swampy, and folks don’t ask too many questions—which is just how I like it. The bayou’s got strange whispers in the water, and if you listen close, you can find things most wouldn’t believe. That’s why I stay. Ain’t nowhere else like it.

My home’s an old beat-up houseboat called The Laughing Minnow. She creaks, leaks, and smells like fish guts and old wood, but she floats. Inside’s a mess—nets hangin’ everywhere, jars full of weird things I’ve caught, a hammock for sleepin’, and a rusty stove that barely works. It ain’t much, but it’s mine.

I get by selling fish, gator meat, swamp herbs—whatever the water gives me, legal or not. Some of it goes to the market in town, but the real money comes from odd jobs. Folks come to me when they lose things in the bayou, or when they need something strange—teeth, bones, rare critters. There’s a few buyers who know what kind of things I really catch, and they pay good for ‘em, no questions asked.

I don’t need much. I spend my money on bait, jars, rope, tools, and repairs for The Laughing Minnow. Sometimes a bottle of whiskey. Most of it goes back into the hunt.

My ambition is to consume the flesh and essence of mythical creatures and, through that, unlock their powers. I don’t just want to hunt legends—I want to become one. I believe that by absorbing what makes these creatures unique, I can shape myself into something far beyond human. Something immortal, feared, and unforgettable.

I’ll go as far as I have to. I’ve faced death before and didn’t flinch—I’d face it again if it got me closer to my goal. If someone stands between me and the creature I’m after, I won’t hesitate to do what’s necessary. I’ve already crossed lines most folks wouldn’t dare approach. This hunger is bigger than fear, guilt, or reason. It’s who I am now.

The most defining event of my life happened deep in the bayou, long before I ever signed The Contract. I was out fishing like any other day when a storm rolled in—fast and mean, like the sky itself had teeth. My boat got pulled into a place I’d never seen before, where the water was too still, and the air tasted wrong. That’s where I saw it—a creature, half-shadow, half-beast, older than anything in the stories. It looked right at me… and it knew me.

I should’ve died out there. But I didn’t. It let me go. Maybe as a warning. Maybe as a test. I don’t know. But ever since then, I haven’t been the same. I stopped caring about normal life—family, friends, all of it faded. That thing showed me there’s more out there—more than people are meant to see. It lit a fire in me. I needed to find it again… or something like it. That day, I stopped being just a fisherman. That day, the hunt began.

Iris Mayfield
One of my top-paying customers from New Orleans, Iris wears perfume to mask the rot she deals in. She pays top dollar for the rarest parts—things that shouldn’t exist. She never asks questions but always knows more than she lets on. I don’t know much about her, just that she’s sharp and she pays well.

Delia "Ma" Rousseau
An old woman living deep in the swamp, Delia is a healer, bone-reader, and maybe a witch. She’s the closest thing I have to family. She’s taken me in more than once when I was half-dead or half-mad from something I shouldn’t have eaten. She doesn’t judge me—she understands the hunger. Sometimes she warns me, sometimes she feeds it. If I die chasing the myth, she’ll be the one to bury what’s left.

Calvin Hayes
Used to fish with me before I changed. He saw one of the creatures I caught—and ran. Now he hunts me, thinking I’ve lost my mind or worse. He still calls me brother, but his rifle shakes when he does.