...The dockmaster's apprentice hauled bolts of ocean-dyed cloth to the sailmaker's shop. Each piece had been inspected for consistency, for the exact shade that the ship captains wanted. It mattered. A sailor's crew needed to be recognizable in a crowd. Ocean-colored uniforms announced their message. We work the waves. We know the harbor. The color had become almost ceremonial, a marker of belonging to a community as old as Waterdeep itself.

In a small coastal village, a fisherman's widow took in piecework from the city dyers, dyeing cords and nets with ocean blue. Her hands were stained past washing. Her daughter would grow up knowing no other color of her mother's skin. But there was respect in it. The fishers trusted her work. When they went out before dawn, they wore nets dyed by her knowledge, and when the market bustled at midday, the boats came in under sails that caught the light like her water-stained hands catching light.