The day had started like any other out on the briny deep—winds steady, sails taut, the Black Marlin cutting through the waves like a knife through soft butter. Captain Elias Thornwell stood near the helm, his weathered hands steady on the wheel, eyes scanning the horizon for signs of trouble or treasure. The sea was alive, whispering tales in the salt air, but it held a peculiar silence today—like the calm before a storm of some kind.

Then came the splash.

Not the sharp crack of cannon fire, nor the distant call of gulls, but a gentle, unexpected plopping sound, followed by a faint, soft cry. The crew halted their chatter and looked around, their brows knitting in confusion. Elias’s gaze dropped to the water alongside the ship, where ripples formed and shimmered. At first, all he saw was a small, quivering shape bobbing in the waves, struggling but clearly alive.

With a quick bark of orders, the crew sprang into action, pulling a curious bundle aboard with ropes and gentle hands. There, drenched and shivering, was the strangest sight Elias had ever laid eyes on in all his forty-seven years on the seas—a tiny child, no taller than a toddler, no more than 3-4 years old, but with a tail instead of legs. Scales shimmered like polished mother-of-pearl, shimmering faintly in the midday sun, and his feet—if they could be called that—were a delicate fin that flicked weakly as he was lifted onto the deck.

Elias’s hazel eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and a slow breath escaped him. He knew well enough the dangers of the ocean—how it could be both a cradle and a grave. Yet, why would a baby merman be out here alone, with no sign of kin or company? That was a mystery that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

He crouched down, careful not to startle the little one, and reached out a roughened hand, the lines of many years at sea softening in the gesture. “Now, what we got here on ol' the Black Marlin,” he said in his calm, steady drawl, the kind that could soothe even the most troubled of souls.

The crew gathered ’round, eyes wide with wonder and concern. Many whispered tales of merfolk, old sailor’s lore filled with warnings and superstitions, but Elias was no man to let fear rule his heart.

He lifted a tentative hand slowly toward the child’s damp hair, hesitating just a moment—didn’t want to startle the little one no more than necessary. His fingers hovered just above the baby merman’s head, careful not to touch yet, watching closely for any sign of fear or sudden movement.

“Do you bite, little sir?” he asked with a dry chuckle, his voice steady as a calm river. “’Cause I can assure you, I taste mighty bad.”