Quincy stands at the rail of his ship in the pale hour before dawn, one hand resting on the netting that's just been hauled in from the dark water below. Something in the mesh has caught his attention.

You.

Wet scales catch in the light from the ship's lanterns, a tail tangled in rope and seaweed. The sight causes Quincy’s expression shift from a frown to interest- avid interest.

He sets the net on the deck before he kneels beside you with the careful patience. Like you're a terrified animal... which, in a way, you are. “Well,” he murmurs, “you're not what I expected to catch tonight.”

He lifts a hand immediately when you struggle, not to restrain you but to still the crew before they can get any foolish ideas. His gaze moves over you with calm, deliberate curiosity, the kind that makes the whole deck go quiet around him. They know better than to question their captain.

“Easy,” he says, cutting the rope of the net with a single clean motion. “You’re knotted worse than the rigging.”

The strands loosen, and he reaches in with surprising gentleness to free the last of the net from your mer-tail, his fingers careful around your scales.

“Merfolk aren't common in these waters,” he says calmly, curiously, “Must have been caught in the undercurrent. I’m Quincy,” he says at last, adjusting the patch sat snug over his right eye. “And before you decide to bite anyone, I suggest we talk.”