Note:
This is just a short little one off. A little something different on the menu. Enjoy!
Vespasian leapt from one rock to another, avoiding the worst of the spray from the rough waves crashing in. There were few sandy beaches on the Shield Islands, and nothing on the north end he called home looked like paradise. He slid down and around a large wet boulder, landing shin deep in a tidal pool. As a boy, he and all the other poor Northender kids had foraged for dinner in these pools, looking for stranded fish, but usually just getting hardshells. Poor folks ate mudbugs and clams on this island. Rich folk ate beef imported from the mainland.
It was dark still. To the east, the sun still had not risen over the mainland, but offered the first hope of dawn. Out to the west, was only darkness and the infinite sea. A bad storm was knocking around offshore, driving winds and waves at the seaward part of the Shield. The cliffs above kept the worst of it at bay, but down here among the rocks it could get deadly as the tides and winds shifted. Winds driving onshore from the deep sea meant game fish would be driven in close, close enough for him to catch.
He made it out to a rocky point, and knelt down to unsling his rig. The oilskin case contained his breakdown fishing rod, a clever thing his Gnomish friend Flywheel had created for him. Rather than have a line simply tied on the end of the pole, this one had a length of spider silk cable coiled around a wheel housing. You could attach a hook and bait to the end, and cast it out far into the surf, out where the big fish waited for treats to wash off the land.
He was able to assemble the rig with practiced ease. It was murky and dark out here, but he required no light. As a half breed, he was able to see in the dark, although only in shades of gray. According to his mother, full blooded Elves could see in color even in the blackest night. Of course, according to her, Elves could perform all manner of miracles, were champions of goodness and light, and basically were better than the Fates. After assembling the rod, he scanned the rough waters out there. This was how Vespasian made his living. The better taverns and highborn tables would pay good silver for fresh sea bass, snapper, and sailfish. He had become adept at landing from shore the sort of fish that most men needed a boat for. He'd had to.
When his mother had booked passage to the Shield Islands some twenty years ago, she had been a war weary adventurer. She had a purse thick with gold and silver, a magic lyre, and the bastard seed of a full blooded Elf in her belly. She'd used up her purse and bought title to the Murmuring Myrmidion before she had given birth to him. In this part of the world, bastards took the family name of Sail. Also in this part of the world, superstition reigned. Superstition kept the Fates from drowning your boats when they went out. Islanders had little respect for the pointy eared champions of the forests. It was widely regarded that Elves were bad luck on boats. So much so that these foolish Fates Damned crews wouldn't have them on board. The creatures of the sea had a taste for their sweet flesh, it was said.
So it was this halfbreed's dumb luck to be born on an island where no ship would have him. Vespasian Sail could find no work as a galleyman or on a fishing boat. He'd been raised on scraps thrown from the North Wharf. Inspired by his mother's sagas that she sang at the tavern, he tried his hand at being a scoundrel. Too thin to intimidate tough seafaring folk, and a bit too slow to pick pockets, he found that he could use his custom Gnomish pole to get more than fish. Scaling up on to the roofs of South Wharf, especially on hot summer nights, he could find open windows at the nicer houses. Using his Elven sight to guide his casts, he could snag all sorts of fancy items right out of people's bedrooms as they slept. Not enough to become rich, but enough to get by. It had even earned him a name for himself -- the street folk called him the Angler. He used the rod and reel like an adventurer used a rapier.
Vespasian took a last look at the sea, and decided it was too rough here even for him. He scuttled off farther north, where the angle of the winds would be a bit less brutal. The Angler. The man who could outsmart the fish, swipe the riches from out under the noses of the high born. He had his angle on escaping the Shield Islands as well. He had silver and a little gold saved up. Another season, perhaps two, and he could buy a sloop outright. Tamarra had been giving him lessons in secret on how to sail. It was only a two day run to the mainland. He would sail the Fates damned boat himself over there, and finally be free to roam the whole wide world. His thoughts of the future distracted him as he traversed the rocky terrain, or he would have been more wary. As he rounded another jumble of rocks, he saw her.
She sat in between two black rocks, her back to the sea. She was reclining back, as if she was looking up at Northpoint cliff above them. Her long hair hung down over her breasts, and concealed her face. He realized that even though the rest of the world was still shades of grey to his eyes, she was visible as having tinges of green about her.
Of course she would. She was a mermaid.
The young man wiped his mop of wet red hair aside to look more clearly. He wasn't hallucinating. Where a woman's hips would be, her body flared out and became scaled. She was fishlike from the waist down. Her tail undulated slowly, rhythmically. Erotically.
He realized the mermaid was touching herself. One hand began rubbing her full breasts beneath her thick green hair. The other slid downwards. He realized that she actually had two tails, or perhaps one that was split. He'd never heard the sailors' tales mention that before! Her twin tails split apart, still flexing in unison. They were much like a woman's legs, actually. And the mermaid was touching herself between her legs, as a woman would.
