No one would ever claim Jacob Jacobson was a good man. From the day he'd been old enough to realize his parents had given him a punny name, he'd hated them. From the day he'd realized he wasn't even in the top half of the attractive boys at the Fighter's Academy, that even that pretty boy Gavin was better-looking than him, he'd hated himself. From the day he'd recognized that Fate had no special plan for him, that the stars hadn't foretold his birth and that he was not destined to be a great hero or anything, he'd hated the gods. The city of Frandal knew Jacob Jacobs as the meanest son of a bitch to display the bare minimum amount of personal discipline and willingness to obey orders to ever graduate from the Academy; he had more personal demerits than the entire rest of his graduating class combined.
Thus, it was with little celebration that Jacob left the city to pursue a life as an adventurer. He rarely stayed in one group for very long; his personality did not suit such. He made up for this with sheer quantity of groups and tiny adventures. Whenever a goblin kidnapped a farmhand's daughter, he was there. Whenever a necromancer threatened to raise an army of darkness and conquer the kingdom, he wasn't there. Whenever a package of cockatrice feathers had to be transported through displacer beast territory, he was there. Whenever a dragon began to scour the countryside of human life, he wasn't there. The number of small adventures added up, but not quickly enough, and Jacob was merely a good swordsman in his forties. He'd met younger men, who had taken greater risks, who were twice his better, and he knew he had not much time before simple age would dull his skills, hard-won or not.
Great laughter was the response when Jacob announced his intention to seek the Bracer of Eternal Life. Everyone knew the tale; Grangois, an elven sorceress near the end of even an elf's life, was dying, and, hoping to avoid lichdom as a solution, crafted a magical bracer that would prevent aging for whoever wore it by aging the bracer instead, only to die in a completely-unrelated shipwreck. In certain parts of the country, "Grangois" was slang for "success, but for the twists of fate," and her story was widely laughed at even in the modern day.
Nevertheless, Jacob was successful in assembling a party, partly by sinking much of his modest fortune into it. A cleric, a sorcerer, and a bard joined him. All of them knew the spell water breathing; with Jacob's martial skill, this was possible. Unlikely, but possible.
They spent months scouring the bottom of the ocean, fought monsters that, on land, were known only in bardic tales. They discovered tenfold minor treasures, which Jacob allowed the rest of his party to keep. He stopped shaving, and on clear days, sailors and fisherman would tell each other of the crazy, ragged, bearded man with a greatsword. Some wondered if he was the son of a water spirit, some wondered if he was a warrior whose son was eaten by a whale. Only a very few ever realized that this was what had become of Jacob.
But, to even their own surprise, the party finally found a lead after thirteen months and day. A sea elf had heard tales of a sunken ship from a century before that had the misfortune of wrecking over the Dragon's Maw, a underwater chasm known for kraken activity; otherwise, this elf's parents (he claimed) would have been happy to rescue any survivors.
The journey was long and dangerous, but again, they triumphed. With the addition of Bolts of Kraken Bane, they tore through the ranks of monsters and finally, *finally* found the ship, the Harpy's Beak.
Most of the ship had broken off and drifted away, but they were in luck; the sorceress' cabin was indeed in the remaining part. A knock spell later, and they were in.
It was glorious. A myriad of arcane treasures; books enchanted to survive the water, candles that still burned, a golden gilded cage that hadn't rusted a day, a mirror that still reflected perfectly. And on a sequined bed lay a skeleton in a robe, a golden-blue bracer surrounding the remnants of her bony right wrist.
With great trepidation, Jacob swam to the corpse. He hated to desecrate a skeleton, but he hoped she wouldn't mind, and broke off her lower arm. The bone disintegrated almost immediately from the attack, leaving only the bracer. But before Jacob could even inspect it, he felt a strange, magical feeling envelop him, and water rushed into his lungs. He turned.
"Sorry, gents," said the bard. "But I rather must insist on ownership of the treasure." He looked at Jacob specifically, as the white tendrils of his dispel magic left his fingers. "The bracer in particular."
He winked mockingly. Jacob took a quick look at the cleric and wizard. They were desperately trying to finish recasting water breathing, but two bolts flew into them, disrupting their spells. The bard's crossbow.
Steeling himself, Jacob threw the bracer back to the corpse and pushed his leg off of the bed, giving him the momentum needed to charge at the traitor. He may have been an asshole, but a traitor, he was not. He took three bolts for his trouble, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Twelve seconds later, there was nothing left but a crossbow and a harp. Fifteen seconds later, just a crossbow. Jacob hated music.
He turned, but winced. The wizard and cleric, less hardy than himself, had drowned. He shook his head; he could do nothing for them now. Realizing that he, too, would die in twenty or so seconds, the surface far too far to swim to, he jumped back to the bed. Cutting the arm of his chain shirt off in a few motions with a knife, he slipped the bracer on. He might die, but he would not, he told himself, die of age.
Jacob choked. Water flushed into his lungs, but it wasn't… as bad as he'd expected. He groaned; something was happening. His flesh was tingling with magical activity, his fingers reflectively curled. Had he not been underwater, all would have heard his pained scream for a mile around.
Jacob could feel his armor fly off him as a magical bolt enveloped his body, pushing the lesser magics of his equipment away from his body until he was naked save for the bracer.
Against his will, his legs pressed against each other, so much that it began to hurt. He could feel something wrapping them, like tape but much faster and sturdier, and a second later, he couldn't move them away from each other. His chest flared, then sank. He could feel his entire torso compress in size; his huge body was, moments later, merely 5'5". He felt two weights appear out of his chest, threatening to rip the skin apart until they settled as two bumps hanging off, flowing whichever way the water went. Last came his face; his flesh straightened, the lines he'd acquired over decades of life disappear, and his chin become smaller and more angular. His eyes enlarged, his eyebrows shrank. His once-ugly nose straightened out. His short, military-cut hair grew rapidly, until he could feel it against the small of his back. His beard simply fell off his skin entirely, floating away.
It was over in a few seconds. He prepared for death, but suddenly found himself able to breathe. He felt his mouth; his lips were… flusher. He pulled himself over to the mirror and gasped.
A mermaid was staring back at him. Long blond hair, a green fish tail; everything. Jacob didn't look a day over twenty-five, if that.
It took Jaleene days to figure it out, but she eventually came to a conclusion. If she was wrong, she was wrong, but it satisfied her enough. She figured the elf sorceress, realizing the ship was sinking, had attempted to transform into something that could survive, specifically, a young mermaid. But the bracer had somehow absorbed the spell like it absorbed aging, denying her its benefits and, thus, she drowned.
And there the spell had stayed for decades, until he put it on and, without realizing its significance, donned the form she'd meant for herself. She had probably only meant to take the mermaid form for as long as it would take to get to shore, but Jaleene was no mage, and couldn't reverse it. A wizard she'd asked for a dispel magic had told her the bracer was simply absorbing any magic cast on her.
She could remove it, she supposed… but there was a certain romance to it, was there not? Sure, she was denied her armor, but she still had her sword, and on clear days, sailors and fishermen would speak of the fair-haired and naked mermaid warrioress who protected ships from monsters of the deep and rescued drowning men during storms, screaming like a barbarian but a beauty to behold. Whether the tales of a kiss, and occasionally more, were true… None really knew for sure. Well.
Perhaps one did.