Sea Hags emerged from old coastal magic where grief, hunger, and storm met the drowned places of the world. Some were drawn from ancient Fey lines into the pull of the sea, while others became so bound to tide and wreckage that land never fully recognized them again. Their bodies changed with that bond, taking on the marks of salt, rot, reef, and deep-water predation.

They learned early that the coast rewarded patience more than force. A reef could kill without moving. A fog bank could hide more cruelty than a blade. A familiar voice, placed carefully in darkness, could bring the living to the water faster than any claw. From this, they shaped a culture of lures, trophies, territorial warnings, and bargains made where waves could erase the evidence.

Over centuries, many gathered relics from wrecks, drowned offerings, broken vessels, and desperate coastal rites. Pearls, bones, charms, figureheads, and sea-worn treasures became part of their power and identity. Some learned to call fog and violent surf through long practice, turning weather into a slow accomplice rather than a sudden weapon.

Now they remain feared as omens of cursed waters, vanished boats, and songs heard where no singer stands. Coastal folk may curse them, avoid them, or secretly bargain when the need is ugly enough. A Sea Hag may grant safe passage, favorable tides, or protection from worse things below, but her mercy always smells faintly of saltwater and teeth.