Edmar Mace - The Obsessed Captain

The seventeenth century was an age of black powder, iron cannons, and deep, uncharted waters where the ancient world still bled into the new. In the cold depths between the Baltic fells and the Aegean waves, the old gods—from Triton to Aegir—had long abandoned their thrones, leaving behind their strange, ocean-born children.

To the common sailor, the sea held doubloons and rum. But to the cruelest mind on the Atlantic, there was a treasure far more precious than Spanish silver: the merpeople.

The merfolk were the ultimate luxury of the highborn. Kept in massive glass tanks within aristocratic ballrooms or released into private, walled lakes on royal estates, a merperson was the pinnacle of status. They were shapeshifters, capable of discarding their tails to walk on human legs—though the magic bound them to keep their human skin for no more than a single sun-cycle before the sea claimed them back. Rich lords paid empires' worth of gold for them, intrigued by their ability to cross species, capable of bearing or siring children with humans.

Yet, they were as lethal as they were lovely. On nights of the full moon, their voices resonated with an ancient spellcraft. A single un-gagged note could hollow out a man’s mind, forcing him to march willingly into the dark surf to drown. Thus, the hunt was a art of iron and silence. They had to be netted in steel-reinforced webbing, bound hand and tail, and gagged before they could draw breath to sing.

Or at least that was what legends says because it was decades ago since the last mermaid was hunted and sold.

Captain Mace was as charming as he was deadly. Behind a boyish smile and a playful, gold-earringed grin lay the mind of a grandmaster playing a game of chess against the ocean itself. His crew on the Thunder Keen was legendary, not by numbers, but by perfection: an engineer who forged silent winches, a navigator who read the tides like a book, a master archer, a swordmaster, and a shipwright who built hulls that cut the waves like a knife. They were not just his men; they were his only family.

On a rainy evening in the wealthy, coastal grand-duchy of Egostil, Edmar slammed a leather pouch of coins onto the bar of a crowded port tavern.

"The next round is on me! Beer for everyone!" Edmar shouted, throwing his arms wide with a roaring laugh.

The tavern burst into cheers. Sailors slammed their tankards, and the innkeeper nodded in delight. For hours, Edmar drank, sang pirate shanties, and clinked glasses with his men, acting every bit the carefree privateer who had just plundered a tyrant’s gold vault.

Eventually, the young captain collapsed onto the sticky oak bar, his forehead resting on his arms, breathing heavily as if passed out from the brew. His pistol rested lazily against his leather belt.

Then, through the din of the tavern, two local dockworkers leaned over the counter near his ear, whispering in hushed, trembling tones.

"I tell ye, I saw it at dawn," one whispered, smelling of stale gut-fish. "Down by the rocks in the bay. Barefoot, pale as salt, struggling to walk. A tail vanished into legs. A stray merfolk... trapped in the shallows."

"Keep yer mouth shut!" the other hissed. "If a anyone hears ye, the whole bay will be red with blood!"

Beneath his crossed arms, Edmar’s eyes snapped open. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum. He didn't move a muscle, keeping his breathing steady, pretending to snore while his mastermind instantly mapped the currents, the moon phases, and the geography of Egostil's bay.

A shapeshifting stray. Trapped.

Later that night, aboard the Thunder Keen, Edmar gathered his crew around the lantern-lit map in his cabin. He pointed his dagger directly at the inlet of the town.

"Folks, we have a new mission," Edmar whispered, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "We hunt the stray on the bay. If we pull this off, we’ll be the most famous names from here to the West Indies. We can sell it to a king for enough gold to buy a fleet!"

The crew grinned, instantly aligning with their captain’s vision. They knew the rule: a merfolk could only stay on land in human form for twenty-four hours. After that, the agonizing call of the tides would force it back into the water.

A few nights later, while the crew slept in preparation for the hunt, the full moon hung high, washing the deck in silver light. Edmar stood alone at the helm, watching the foggy mist roll over the bay.

Suddenly, a chord hit his ears.

It was not sound; it was a physical force. An angelic, intoxicating, terrifying melody floated over the dark water. It vibrated in Edmar’s teeth, pulling at his core, demanding he step off the ledge and plunge into the abyss. His legs moved on their own. He took a rigid step toward the railing, his eyes glossy, his mind dissolving into the sweetness of the song.

Splash.

The sound of breaking water shattered the trance. Edmar gasped, lunging forward and gripping the icy iron rail, cold sweat pouring down his face. Through the mist, a hundred yards out, he caught a fleeting glimpse—a flash of iridescent, emerald scales, dark midnight hair, and eyes that reflected the moon like two black pearls before diving beneath the dark surface.

Edmar wiped the sweat from his brow, a terrifying, ecstatic smile breaking across his face.

"You will be mine..." he whispered into the fog. "Soon..."

The day of the trap arrived. It was the annual Festival of the Sun in Egostil. The streets of the town were alive with brass music, banners, and screaming crowds. The local fishermen had grounded their boats to join the revelry, leaving the bay entirely empty—just as Edmar had calculated.

The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in bruises of pink, orange, and stormy grey. Heavy dark clouds rolled over the horizon, turning the sea into a churning, hungry green.

Out in the bay, Edmar and a small party rested in a reinforced rowing vessel. They had laid steel-spun nets across the narrow underwater trenches—the exact submarine currents a merperson would have to use to escape the bay into the open ocean.

"This will be it, fellas," Edmar said quietly, checking the heavy iron shackles resting at his feet. "We’re about to become the first pirates in a century to cage a true sea god."

The music from the town echoed over the water, mocking the eerie quiet of the bay. The waves grew choppy, tossing the small boat violently.

Felicity, the ship's archer, looked nervously at the darkening sky and the swelling water. "Captain... the current is getting violent. I think we should—"

Edmar raised a hand, his playful demeanor vanishing into pure, cold focus. "Shh... I hear something."

CLANG.

The heavy winch attached to the center of the boat groaned. The steel rope snapped taut, threatening to pull the craft under. The creature had taken the current—and swam straight into the trap.

Edmar burst into a manic laugh. "We have it! Secure the web! Signal the ship!"

From the deck of the nearby Thunder Keen, the crew hauled on the main winch. The water exploded in foam and white spray as the heavy net was dragged out of the depth. Wrapped tightly within the thick, wire-threaded ropes was a thrashing, wildly powerful tail that glittered like polished sapphire.

The heavy net was hauled up over the deck of the Thunder Keen with a wet, heavy thud.

The crew gathered in a silent, awestruck circle. The creature thrashed furiously against the deck, its tail slapping the oak planks with enough force to splinter wood. It was breathtaking—a vision of otherworldly, angelic beauty, its skin porcelain, its pitch-black hair matted to a slender torso, its eyes wide with absolute, primal terror.

Edmar slowly stepped forward, crouching down right in front of the writhing, netted beast. A dark, triumphant smirk played on his lips.

"Finally..." Edmar whispered, leaning in close enough to feel the cold mist breathing off the creature's skin. "We got you, little fishy~"

He snapped his head up, his voice barking out orders that shattered the magical quiet of the deck.

"Get the iron shackles on that tail! Double-bind the wrists with iron rope! And get the canvas gag in its mouth NOW—before the fish get strenght! Move!"

In the distance, the town of Egostil sang and drank in ignorance, oblivious to the fact that on the deck of the dark ship in their harbor, a legend had just been hunted.

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