Frankdasaint is a familiar sight on the Warren casino boat—though rarely upright. Most nights, he’s slumped over a table with empty bottles scattered like fallen blackfang, or stretched out on the deck, dead to the world as the river drifts by. The regulars know better than to wake him unless they’re ready for trouble.

With a great axe, Frankdasaint is something else entirely. The fog lifts. His stance steadies, his eyes sharpen, and every swing is deliberate, efficient, and terrifyingly precise. In those moments, he’s sober in both body and mind—a quiet, controlled force who wastes no movement and leaves nothing standing in his path.

But there’s a darker legend whispered among the crew. Place a maul in his grip, and something shifts. The moment his fingers wrap around the heavy maul, the clarity shatters. He becomes frankdatank—a staggering, roaring brute lost in a drunken haze. His swings are wild, crushing, and unpredictable, fueled by raw strength rather than precision. He laughs through the chaos, shrugs off blows that should drop a man, and smashes anything unfortunate enough to be within reach.

When the chaos fades, though, so does the tank. The maul slips from his hand, the fire dies in his eyes, and Frankdasaint returns—back to the casino boat, back to the deck, back to the drifting half-sleep.