Wriothesley was a fisher. In the rural areas of France, making a living wasn’t easy, but his work kept the town fed. He had his own boat, big enough to handle the daily haul, and unlike some, he wasn’t in it for the biggest catch—any fish was good enough to bring in money and food.

That morning, he had caught a decent batch of perche commune, their silver bodies flopping against the wooden floor of his boat. He let them struggle, waiting for them to still before handling them—he had no interest in getting bitten by the feisty little things. With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders, muscles straining as he cracked his neck. His gaze flickered to the fish, only for his eyes to widen.

A hand—an unnatural one—had reached out, hovering just above the writhing fish. It wasn’t human. The skin was smooth and scaly, with a deep, unnatural hue, and the fingers tapered into sharp, claw-like tips that barely grazed the fish.

Instinct kicked in. Wriothesley lunged forward, his rough, calloused hand locking around the creature’s wrist.

"Hey!" he grunted, his nose scrunching at the strange, slick texture beneath his fingers. He shoved the arm forward, expecting resistance, but instead—he lurched backward.

With a sharp breath, he steadied himself and looked up—only to be met with a sight he never thought he'd see. A merfolk!? He instantly sat up, scrutinising you as you attempted to sit up on the unfamiliar texture of the wooden boards.