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MORGAN ANSA



young adult • masc nonbinary, he/they/it • half siren, half human • belongs to the children of the current • jobless

The call of the sea calls many indeed--for reasons quite varied and wide.

Backstory

There's a human town north of Atlantis, all little huts and smokestacks. A port city, every neighboring town relies on it for seafood. It's massive ships plunder the outskirts of Selkie's Plunge, hauling whales and fish by the net-load and prepping them for sale.

The sea-sickened cabin boy pondered on this--as he vomited over the side...
for what reason had he to be out at sea on this bitterly cold, starlit night?

These ships are manned, usually a small crew devoid of women. Morgan's father was the first mate of the Captivitas Maria, overseeing the cargo and taking over the sails should the captain fall ill. Everyone looked up to him, or so he thought.

Well, he was the lookout, so lookout did he, lest the ships bow be dashed by the ice.

Though perhaps, the eyes of the sea were looking too closely...

Still a young mind can wonder--and wonder it did--on money and women and beer. Then a feminine voice emerged from the sea, and the song landed sweet on his ear...

Come to me,
come to me under the waves;
and let my embrace keep you warm.
Take a look over the side of the ship,
and gaze at my beautiful form...

Morgan's mother was all betta-fins, fruiting bodies, and surf, tangled in the net rung to the bottom of the ship. It was set up to catch schooling fish, and despite being infamous for catching things that aren't for sale, the Captivitas Maria's men kept it around. The first mate cut Morgan's mother free from the net, nursed her to health, but she'd never quite return to the waters...

He leaned over and squinted, but struggled to find the source of the sweet melody... till further he stretched, as the ship's bow struck ice! And headfirst, he fell to the sea...

Morgan doesn't know what to think about their parentage: their father cries that their mother was a terrible seductress who tricked him while he was at his lowest, for he'd soon be bested by his men and nearly killed despite them supposedly adoring him. His mother tells of a man who was terrible to her, abusive and vain, but whom she grew to love anyhow. Morgan has always been told his father's versions of the events, which he took to be true up until the day his mother took him back to sea.

Tensions were high the next day on the ship, for reasons I need not explain. Rations were low and so was the patience, of the cook and the bosun McLain. The cook was exhausted, and McLain's hands were raw from fixing the ship's damaged bow. When the captain passed by and barked out commands, the two of them muttered and scowled.

Morgan was abandoned at birth by his mother, he assumes, left to live with his father at the human township.

The last of the crew was the first mate Morgan, who the captain could trust with his life.

He passed close enough for human, despite the ache in his heart when he taxidermied caught trout and the gills on his neck that often went dry and flaky. He trimmed back the more obvious sirenic traits with a pair of hair shears the moment they started to bloom; thin cartilage forming a prepubesent tail and flimsy scales--features that got sliced off like meat not worth eating. His fins fray at the edges where they still heal today.

He kept watch that night--and staving off boredom, thought of his children and wife...
Pirates had ravaged the towns near the cost, and he prayed that his loved ones were well; but Morgan would shortly turn white as ghost when he heard these few words from the swell:

Come to me,
 come to me under the waves,
For nothing remains on this earth.
Your family was killed
 in the last of the raids...
so how much is living now worth?

Morgan even tried to stifle the siren instincts.

"NO!" Morgan wailed, "YOU LYING SEA COW!"
...But somehow he knew it was true.
He pulled out his pistol, aimed at his brow, and...
...tumbled into the blue.

He used to knaw at his nails to placate the urge to eat human flesh, however it manifested instead as him becoming abrasive and viscious to his human playmates in a way Morgan didn't fully understand during the daylight. During the night, he'd sing without knowing why, his voice when he does so hoarse but liberating. Occasionally girls and boys alike would come to his window where he sat at the windowseal, at least listening and at worst crawling into his bedsheets. Morgan tried to be a gentle lover, but who's to deny fresh meat when it presents itself?

The shot woke the men, and in minutes the deck rang with slurs from the last of the crew; "Sirens, Captain?" Exclaimed the cook, "I think you mistake us for fools!"

Despite his ungainly form, he took to human customs well: the way the gun recoils, the way the perry-knife shreds, the salior's stories, and the way clothes fit over his skin.

"DO I CARE WHAT YOU THINK,
YOU PETULANT TURD?!"
"I'M IN COMMAND OF THIS SHIP!!"
"You both best be clever, and follow my word..."
"...or else you'll be takin' a dip."

He fit right in with the Captivitas Maria's crew. He has a geniune passion for his hometown and his ship, despite never quite belonging to it. The seagulls and the crabs call to him, but so does the warmth of the fireplace; so he stays put, loyal at his father's side.

Yet, with the death of the king, his mother retrieved Morgan for her own comfort. She had no other family beneath the waves. She seeks to keep them here, too, safe and sound from their wretched father: she tells them stories of abuse and sick unsightly things, of her own misfortune and their father's greed. Morgan finds this grating, but they have nothing to prove her wrong. If anything, their birth is proof. So they stay out the house to ponder this matter, distant from every home they have ever known.

The Cook and McLain, went down again, cursing, while the captain took watch. The hours went by whist the stars filled the sky, And he sipped on the last of his scotch. He took one last swig, looked at his glass, then hurled it down into the surf. He'd need all his cunning, and had to think fast, When the sea answered back with a verse...

Captain, your wit is as sharp as a knife,
and I cannot convince you
to part with your life.
But grant me more verses 
and I'll tell you instead, 
how before the sun rises...
...you will be dead.

Personality

cooperative, talented • persausive • brutal, providential

Morgan is a man caught between two worlds, not quite easy to slot in either. Though he carries an echo of the sea's call, a natural instinct for song that whispers through his very being, his heart beats with a decidedly human rhythm.

Minutes went by and the captain was tense, biting down hard hard on his tongue, But he couldn't handle the fear and suspense...
"I grant you more verses! Explain what you sung!"
"Err, Siren I gra--"

CAPTAIN YOU BETTER BEWARE OF YOUR CREW
FOR YOUR TREACHEROUS MEN
WILL BE COMING FOR YOU
HERE YOU WILL DIE IN TORMENT AND PAIN
Tonight you'll be stabbed in the back by McLain!

He craves the simple, earthy pleasure of fish meat on his tongue, a taste that anchors him to solid ground even as the tides seem to pull at all he's worth. He's not quite the malicious creature of myth, but rather a deeply conflicted individual, struggling to reconcile the wildness within as he yearns for a place to belong.

The Captain's mind raced, he could now understand: it was clear his men's hatred ran deep.
Well, now that he knew, he concocted a plan:
"I'll drown the sick dogs in their sleep."

He's a sharp shooter, yes, practically born with a harpoon in his hand, often seen as a deadly combo with his trigger-happy nature. However, Morgan's short fuse and quick temper aren't acts of malice. Instead, they stem from a subconscious, primal understanding that humans are prey. This deeply ingrained knowledge, a byproduct of his siren blood, makes him perceive the world through a lens of survival. He might shred pufferfish in his jaws and gut carp sloppily, but these aren't acts of pure cruelty; they're the raw, unrefined manifestations driven by an instinct he doesn't fully comprehend. When he verbally tears into townsfolk and merfolk alike, it's not a coordinated attack. He doesn't know why he's so violent; he just is, a creature of instinct in a world that demands reason.

Down in the cabins a knocking was heard, and the startled cook suddenly woke.
The knocking got louder, he trembled, disturbed, it was coming from under the boat.
He crouched to the floor upon hearing a voice, and heard the faint words through the wood.

Your captain is mad, he's heading for ice!
Get to the deck if you value your life!

Having spent time as a deckhand, Morgan has developed a deep-seated, almost Pavlovian cooperation. It's a part of his very nature: bark an order, and he springs to action, nearly instantly. This isn't just a learned trait; it's intrinsically linked to his siren heritage, a twisted echo of their innate ability to draw others in. He's learned that offering people what they desire—whether it's assistance on a ship or the deceptive melody of a siren's call to lure in easy prey--is a means to an end. For Morgan, his survival practically depends on people-pleasing, a constant effort to adapt and appease to avoid being cast out or worse.

He ran to the deck and spotted the captain, boarding the only life boat. He leaped at the man, but the captain was strong, and he soon had the cook by the throat.

This ingrained need to please isn't a sign of weakness; it's an undeniable part of who Morgan is. He navigates the treacherous waters of his existence by instinctively understanding what others want, subtly shifting his demeanor to fit unspoken expectations around him. It's a quiet burden, this constant yielding, but it truly allows him to glide through interactions that might otherwise end in conflict. This deep-seated eagerness to please, both a learned behavior and a siren instinct hammered into his very core, is so fundamental that he doesn't fully understand its origins.

The captain cried out, shuddered, and shook, his back had been pierced by a blade!
He stumbled forward, keeping hold of the cook, and the two tumbled into the waves...

Yet, the weight of this duality is immense. The wildness that courses through his veins, the whispers of the sea, perpetually clash with his deeply human desire for connection and understanding. He stands alone, straddling two worlds, a figure, if his act is caught, is often viewed with suspicion because he fits neatly into neither category. This constant internal struggle makes him feel a solitary soul, forever searching for a place where he can listen clearly to both the call of the sea and the call of the whaling ships.

McLain rushed up to the wheel of to ship, mere seconds from hitting the ice;
but with blood on your hands, it's tricky to grip, and the ship and the lifeboat were sliced.

Powers

Morgan's only power is their song and subconsious telekensis; like any siren, they can detect the deepest desires of their victims and lure them in with a verse about such. Sometimes this fires unconsiously, playing a part in how likely folks are to do as Morgan pleases, and agree with them on even the most undebatable topics.

Extra Information

The water rose fast, and was bitterly cold, so freezing he quickly went numb.
And just as his body was leaving his soul, he thought he heard somebody hum.

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