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The ship was often quiet in the darker hours of the evening. There was certainly little to do now, what with the way the waters beneath them lapped smoothly at the sides of the ship with only a slight breeze to drag them softly through a sea of mirrored stars. She could see them now from her window, little faded spots of clean white against the gentle dark around them. They sparkled and flickered in much the same way as the lanterns above deck would in the dark, in the same way that hers on her table did now as the ship rocked and swayed gently in the tide. It was hard not to feel the sway in her older bones. Hard not to want to set her pen aside and surrender to the easy rhythm for the night, and yet.

She sighs. One weathered hand comes to her head to push fading salt and pepper strands back towards the haphazard bun the rest had been stuffed into. Her glasses were falling down the length of her aquiline nose and with a tired sort of grace she grabbed them and rubbed the sleep from her eyes with the flat of her hand.


The candles around her flickered soft as they moved with the ship, their flames almost unneeded in the bright moonlight that filtered through the window. She appreciated them anyway, added a sense of danger whenever she nodded off too near one.


“Really,” she sighs to herself. The glasses settle with a soft clatter against the rough wood as her hand drops. There was no need to be up so late. She could settle for the night in the small bed provided for her, be up early in the morning, and continue the transcriptions in her journals. Hell, her hands would certainly thank her. Larry was always harping on her whenever he was around to witness her late nights despite being nearly half her age. “All wide eyes and soft smiles that one was,” she huffs softly. Hands wrinkled with age and experience pull a stray paper from the pile; it was one of the ones her younger mentee had attempted a drawing on. Crude, definitely crude, but there was an earnest sort of attempt there that pulled a smile from lips otherwise hesitant to do so. She hums to herself as she matches the subject to her own drawings and observations.

“Broad strokes and clumsy hands, the brushwork is still…” papers shift and rustle as she sorts it into a bigger pile. The delicate lines of her own work stand in sharp contrast to the new addition, each flowing fin and sinuous curve of the subject rendered with a kind of care not afforded to the sort of tropical mer depicted once they were pulled from the water. Colors enticing enough to pull sailors in like children chasing sweets, voices capable of crooning songs that reached in to tug at the core of you. They were clever creatures; what they lacked in size and strength, they made up for in tricks and a sharp sort of cunning that cut if you wandered too close. Pity they were prized more for their looks. A particularly bright mer could fetch a small fortune in the right circles.


The paper tucked under Larry’s own scribblings is an elegant rendering of a tropical mer in bright pastels and saturated jewel tones. The shading is done in such a way that light from the surface hits and sparkles from her fines in fractal patterns. Around her, observations are written in neat scrawl:


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Tropical Mer(maid)


Size Classification: Large (adult specimens measure ten to twenty feet from head to tail, though averages wildly between specific species)

Notes: Largest species range within the genus. Tails, patterns, and coloring all closely mirror those of existing fish species, though it seems that it is not limited only to fish. Nudibranch and crustacean varieties have also been observed in the wild. Often, these mers hide features that can often be lethal to an unsuspecting researcher if not handled carefully. They seem to hunt and live in large pods, and certain pods have been observed participating in migratory behavior in the colder months.


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She rolls her eyes as she grumbles. “Pah, men…”.


Her fingers slide under another paper Larry had drawn on. This one, this one she had met; one of the coastal variety, a little duller in color but not by much. There was still a beauty to them, something lovely in the sharper scales and claws, in the dichotomy between harsh edge and flowing fin. This one, if she’s correct in her guess, is one that she had seen frequently at gatherings in the young lord’s home. The family was one of a handful that funded these explorations, she should be grateful, and yet… She had always found the practice of keeping such creatures in homes for displays rather ghastly. They belonged out here where they currently were. Kept in such relatively small tanks…well. The desire for a mer, any mer, in captivity was something so foreign to her and her research. They were beautiful, yes, but she understood better than most the inherent danger any one of any variety posed. It was as though some nobleman fancied having a shark on display and ignored any warning that it may one day bite.

The mer depicted here is a crude rendition of the specific coastal mer in her tank at one of the many parties they had attended as guests. She had seen her little mentee tucked away in a corner with his paper and charcoal as he observed the young mer in her too-small tank; an attempt had even been made at the pale young man draped in front over a couch. There’s a note in his neat cursive in the corner of the paper: ‘she seems sad’. If her seafoam grey gaze lingers a little longer than necessary on the note, well. There's no one here to call her on it.

Her own rendition and notes are tucked behind his. Her own rendering captures the sloping lines of her tail, the long flowing fins that ripple whenever she had moved in her too-small tank. The scales that cover her aren’t as jewel-like as her tropical cousins, and yet still they shimmer like pearlescent shards of some rocky shellfish or the sea glass that occasionally washed up on beaches. There was a softer beauty there in between sharp spines and jagged peaks of defensive bone, more understated. Quieter, yet no less.


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Coastal Mer(maid)


Size Classification: Large (adult specimens measure fifteen to twenty feet. Little variation between species. This particular specimen falls on the further right end of the bell curve, larger than average. )

Notes:  The coastal varieties are more streamlined than their tropical cousins, and yet no less clever for their slightly duller colors. They still pose just as great a risk to sailors, they simply have the courtesy to be a bit more obvious about it. Their bodies possess a number of adaptations tailored to more aggressive uses such as spikes, spurs, stunning; if it had some use in stabbing a man, they would see fit to possess it. Still, they remain stunningly beautiful in addition to remarkably hardy to accommodate for their chosen territory. The one depicted here was taken from the rocky shores of Maine. Note the subtly thicker scaling along the softer edges of the body and tail; this was a mer that could welcome being thrown with the tide against a cliff edge and swim away completely unaffected.


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She shakes her head. It couldn’t be good for her. Even less so for colossal-classed mer kept away in the dark basement of the university library.


He had thrown her the first time she had been down after his internment. Dark waters gave way to an even darker shape gliding its way past the smooth line of glass separating the tank from the office surrounding it. She could hardly gauge the size of it completely, even though she had seen a hand that could have neatly curled around her own head with fingers the length of her forearm. She wasn’t a large woman by any means, yet still. She had felt almost miniscule when those bright green eyes had turned to stare back at her from a floating mane of near pitch hair. The glass at that point had felt like more of a formality than anything as razor tipped claws traced  hairline scratches quietly across the other side of the foot thick wall, lightly carving mirrored drawings of fish, plants, and unfamiliar symbols at her.  There's only her observations of this one. Her research assistant for this particular case didn't care to share his journals very often.

“A curious man,” she muses as she considers the pages. “Curious man indeed.” Her pale haired assistant in this matter was just about as far from her usual mentee as possible. Snow white hair at such a young age, face already so serious, eyes bluer than the sea on a bright morning, curious pale markings up any exposed bit of skin; the man was a puzzle that she found herself hesitant to pry at. As much as she wished to poke at him until he cracked, she was all too aware of who his father was. That, and the young man had a temper on him that only ever seemed to cool when interacting with the abyssal mer.

The drawing she has of the creature is more a mess of dark charcoal than anything, vague dark shapes twisting in even darker water. Only the bright green of his eyes are clear, as is the press of a large, ink dark hand against the glass, pale palm turned towards her and dark claws tipped dangerously against the glass.


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Abyssal Mer(man)


Size: Colossal (observed adult specimen measures sixty feet in length, but measurements support the hypothesis that growth never truly stops, merely slows, the rate of which decreases exponentially with age. Such a phenomena is common with deep sea varieties. While this specimen remains out of range of the leviathan classing of the Trench Mer, researchers suspect his age to be far greater than any leviathan class yet discovered.)

Notes: For such an aggressively designed creature, he remains largely docile unless provoked. Cannot be made more pliant by any sort of drug, as tests indicate that the creature metabolizes any sort of foreign substance remarkably well. Ocular function is largely reduced and what remains is extremely sensitive to light, obviously more adapted to deeper ocean life. On a curious note, deep sea life has a curious habit of blooming both in the tank and on the creature before withering and dying, resulting in a constant need to clean the tank. Attempts to do so by any sort of tech are treated as threat by the creature. It is my professional opinion that more optimal filtration  be installed rather than sacrificing techs as if in some strange, cult ritual. We’re better than this.


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Speaking of the larger ones, however….

Of these she only has speculative sketches, things she’s crafted from a handful of eyewitness accounts. Spikes like jagged peaks, claws that could tear through iron, bones woven skillfully into hair curled and swaying like the great lengths of kelp deeper below the surface. Their bodies cast massive shadows, and the rumors were so great as to their unbeatable strength that entire trade maps had been rewritten once one had been spotted in a certain territory. They were living mountains of stone and shadow; she shuddered to think of one up close. And yet… the possibility for study threatened to eclipse any fear. Truly, were she to see one eventually…

She thinks it would be a treat.


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Deep Sea/ Trench Mer

Size: Leviathan (One of the very few worthy of this classification, adults measure sixty feet plus: an upper limit is not known. Growth is rapid and immense, such that adolescents are on the cusp of a colossal size classification. Truly, there’s little doubt that these elusive mers are the true giants of the deep, more akin to mountains as adults than any sort of biological phenomena. It’s our great luck that they tend to refuse to come near to the surface.)

Notes: Not much is known of these elusive creatures. From what we do, however, it appears they prefer solitary hunts as well as vast swathes of territory to call their own. Their spikes are rocky growths, though whether they might be bone or some calcified growth adaptation from living in the trenches, I’ve yet to see. Sightings near the surface are rare, though more common in certain marked locations and even more likely in the wake of some massive storm. Whether one begets the other, we’ve yet to puzzle out. Any age of these mer poses a massive and immediate threat to any ship, disengage if possible, abandonment of the ship is advised in case of engagement. From what we’ve heard, they tend not to register humans outside their ship as threats. Possibly due to hunting only big game? Ships may be mistaken for prey in that regard. An interesting theory, at least.


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There’s a knock at her door then.


Such things aren’t uncommon here on the ship. When you come to study on a ship, you learn to appreciate the crew and they learn to live with you in turn. That slow, heavy knocking though; three loud thumps and the heavy creaking of the floorboards underneath as whoever it was shifts their weight from one foot to the other as they wait. She has very little doubt as to who it might be. Barely looking up from organizing her current stack, she huffs her approval at the door.


“Come in.”

The slow, rolling creak of unoiled hinges fills the room. The low, bassy rumble of the captain follows soon after. “Coffee or rum, Jane? I’ve got both.”

‘It’s Professor Marie.” she hums on reflex. “Have some imagination, Walter. They’re better if you mix them right.”

“It’s Captain Magnus.” the man rumbles back as he sets both the pitcher of coffee and bottle of rum on the table well out of the way of her already coffee stained piles of notes. “Swiped the bottle from Murphy, kid always manages to squirrel away something good.”

“If he’s a child, he shouldn’t have it in the first place.”


Walter hardly makes much of a sound at that, merely tips his head in acknowledgement before pouring out a measure of coffee and rum into a mug grabbed from nearby. Jane isn’t even sure if it's clean from the last night he dropped by. The man tips it over to her before pouring his own and as she takes a sip, she has a moment to observe the man.

Walter started coming by mostly at her insistence. They kept nearly the same hours (all of them) and had similar preferences in drink (whatever kept them upright longer), and so extending an invitation seemed only natural. It helped ease her mind as well when she drank late at night; liquor alone was a slow slide to a pitying look when caught, but with company, drinking was downright sociable. She was being friendly, she reasons. Friendly with the captain in charge of this scientific expedition. Soon enough, such things would eventually end, as all things did. Better to enjoy it while it lasted. Her hand brings her mug to her lips as Walter seems to consider something in front of her over the soft hum of the ship’s engine. She liked that about him, she thinks as she feels the smooth heat of rum tipped coffee slide down her throat. Walter took time in his thoughts. Nothing ever felt wasted.


“You’re taking that boy back with you, then?” he eventually settles on.


“Larry, you mean? I have to, any longer and there won’t be much of him left. Poor boy’s not meant for sailing.”

“Should say so. His sickness is starting to get to the crew.”

“Oh?” she hums. “Has one swarthy lad taken it upon himself to care for the poor man?” Walter opens his mouth to say something, but she holds up a hand instead. “Save it. You and I both have eyes.”

Walter grumbles, obviously unused to being interrupted but hardly in the mood to fight it. “Wasn’t going to deny it. Molly’s useless as wet gunpowder if he even gets a glimpse of yours. Was going to suggest you take the lad with you.”

“I’ve no use for a sailor on land.”

“And I’ve no use for one distracted. We’re taking the infernal twin with us further and I’ll need every ounce of help if I’m to live through that one’s bite.” He takes a sip of his own coffee, elbows on the table. “Think of the postage you’ll save.”

“Not me that’s buying it.” Yet still, she considers it. Taking another research assistant seemed unlikely, but a sailor did have its uses in her research. That, and Larry would be near useless for a week after their parting; she needed him for the latest clerical disaster that would be organizing their notes from this expedition. “I’ll consider it.”

“I’ll put it in mine’s mind. Ease him into the idea. The sea’s got hold of him something fierce.” Walter shakes his head.

At that she laughs. “Can't say a lot about the man, but he’s ramrod stubborn when he wants to be. Good luck.”


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In the end, their departure at port had been too harried, too hectic to make time to find the sailor when they departed. ‘No matter’, she had thought with her thick bundles of sketches and notes in her arms. ‘If it were meant to be, he’d have come.’ As it were, it would just be a matter of time before they were in the same port. Her poor research assistant would just have to learn patience.


Still though.


She’d watched those pale eyes watch the ship balefully for someone that wasn’t coming, up to the point where the ropes securing it were pulled away and the ship drifted once more out to sea. The stacks of paper in his arms shook as his hands did.


“He promised…” she could hear him murmur, staring brokenhearted towards the shrinking figure of the ship on sea.


“Men often do.” She had simply hummed. “Come, he’ll be back, and you can yell at him all you like then.” She’d offered a grin then in addition to a cup of the finest coffee the cafe could rustle, and yet still, still.

Looking back, she would always regret those words as kind as the sentiment behind them had been. It would never be enough to scrub the sinking dread of a few months later as she watched Larry’s face fall as he read through a neatly penned letter. Never enough to silence the half choked, broken end of a sob that rattled even now across her memories as her assistant had excused himself to break alone in another room.

She had risen then as if to follow, hand half brushed over a half drawn sketch of some brightly tinted, tropical mer, it’s tail a streak of bright, navy blue. The door clicked shut before she could, leaving her alone and surrounded by her own sketches and notes as well as one out of place paper left by her pale haired assistant.

He had improved with time. There, in sure lines of rich, dark black, was a figure in profile. His head tilted just right as he leaned as gracefully as any mer in water on the rail of that same ship they had sailed on months earlier. A breeze pulled his long hair past his shoulder even as it was tied back for utility’s purpose, and there was just the curve of a smile; a private, quiet thing meant only for the viewer. Her own fingers plucked at the edge of it to pull it from the mess of a pile.


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There, in the corner, an inscription in steady cursive:


For Molly, when you return. I’d much prefer the real thing.


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