Song of the Siren (Diablo Fan Fiction)

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Here is a little story I wrote about a siren set in the Diablo universe. Have you ever met that one perfect girl that just drove (or still drives) you crazy? Well what if she visited you in your dreams and sung to you? It doesn't sound that bad does it? Read on and find out. I originally wrote this for the blizzard competition and had trouble sending it on so I thought I would let others read it instead of just throwing it away.

Word of warning, it might take about 10-15 min to read.



SKB
April 12, 2009

Tavita Pritchard: Potter and Artist of the Black Marsh

A stingy smoke permeates through the tavern. The candles flicker with an uneasy, yellowish glow. I can tell that they were carved from the tallow of those plagued bovine. It was a curse they had said, but I am not certain. Perhaps the world is simply returning to its natural state. When the first beasts became ill, they were slaughtered and ceremoniously buried far from the outpost. When the other men left and the cows remained plagued, we let them rot as they fell. And now, as the days grow darker and colder, we, the unlucky who remain, feast on every inch of the corpses as if they were a blessing from Tyrael himself.
The rank vapor leaves my eyes red and teary, but I do not mind. It is the smell which turns my stomach. The thick scent leaves a sickly sweet taste in the back of the mouth. It is quite nauseating. I should think that the women would prefer to have the candles snuffed, but I understand. The luxury reminds us of a time when candles were a necessity of living. They are now a brief escape from the marching darkness. I, myself, prefer the mead.
This is how I spend my evenings now, slumped in my corner with a jug of drink. One of the women, I cannot see her face, steps over me. Her wooden shoe catches the corner of my hand. My limbs feel useless and distant. She does not look down or seem to notice. She acts as if I am just another one of the fallen bovine. I briefly wonder what they then might do to me if I fall asleep and never wake. I am indifferent to the notion. My complaints drop with my eyelids and I welcome the rolling slumber that approaches. I hope to dream of her. As my body goes limp, and the twinkling lights fade away, I see her approach through the darkness and smile.

***

I wake up with the most beautiful humming in my ears. My eyes flicker open for a moment and then close. Her song has not yet left me, and I savor the moment, wishing I were still asleep. Her figure is still vivid in my memory. A beauty, otherworldly! Her dark hair obscures all but her lips which curl and pout and caress and oh! Her looks would damn a man's soul if it weren't for her voice. It is the voice of an angel. When she comes to me, her lips kiss and sing and I forget that I am Tavita Pritchard--rotting potter of the Black Marsh--I forget life, I forget death. For those fleeting yet everlasting moments of sleep it is only her and I, and I cannot bear to open my eyes and face another day alone.
There is a chill in the morning air. I still have a putrid sweetness in my mouth. As I stretch my aching back I realize, to my horror, that I am not in the tavern but outside in the wilderness. I am somewhere in the bog of Black Marsh. Panic stabs into me like an arrow. My first thought is that the women have cast me out. "Dog hearted Harpies. Daughters of harpies," I curse. I move quickly, with purpose, too afraid to think.
I am almost ashamed when I realize that I am only a few meters from the entrance to the encampment. I press my hands against the smooth logs of the armored wall, looking for the gate. This fence is the only thing that separates the camp from onslaught. Standing tall and sharp, it is the pride of the Black Marsh Outpost. No fiends or demons have ever scaled these walls and perhaps never will.
A heavy lump of metal swings in the pockets of my tattered trousers. I reach and discover, to my delight, that it is the Gate Key. I do not question why I have it. My only thought is that I will now be able to sneak back into the encampment without waking the cranky, vulturous women.
The perspiration gathers around my temples as I push the formidable gate open. Flakes of dust fall from the rarely used door and coat my cheeks. After a series of creaks and moans, the gate opens enough for a three legged dog to fit through (I can squeeze through as well I see). As I begin to close the wall behind me I think that I may be safe. I can pretend this whole episode never happened. I should be so lucky.
A harsh, curdled voice cuts through the air. I know before I turn that it is Deirdre, senior member of the Black Marsh Outpost. She is an ample woman--half barbarian no doubt--full of blood and cinder. "Tavita, prattling craven, you will kill us all!" she yells.
I am caught. I stumble on the words of my lie. "Forgive me Deirdre, I thought I heard a voice cry outside." When I finally turn to face her, her anger turns to surprise, or doubt. I do not question the sudden change of temperament and neither does she. She grunts and groans, throws the gate back into place, and she snatches the key from my hand without a word. But there is a look of death in her eye and the stench of it on her breath.
I slink back to my home feeling guilty. Of what I am not quite sure, sleep walking? Lifting the gate? Holding the key? Waking up in the wild has a sinister, but refreshing air to it, especially compared to the dank muskiness of the deteriorating camp.
Deirdre proceeds with her morning ritual of food (at least the body tries to process it as food) gathering and mutters to herself. Everything else is still in the morning light. There is always an air of loneliness that hangs in the camp, but it is heart wrenchingly desolate in the early morning. I have a brief notion that we are living in an unburied grave that is waiting to be entombed. Perhaps it is waiting for us.
There are eight buildings here and the three women and I are the only ones left to inhabit them. The blacksmith still has unsharpened blades on its anvil. The food stores were never properly filled and have been empty for quite some time. The stables make a decent bed, but never housed a horse. The pasture is stained purple and yellow. Everything in this camp is in one state of transition--either being built or being torn down--with the exception of my pottery.
My ceramics are both elegant and stunning. I have crafted statuesque vases that fill every hole and imperfection in this camp. I have placed them on windows, on paths, in storefronts, and in front of doors. They are everywhere I felt a man, woman, or dog, or any living thing should be (by the looks of it I had a very prolific camp in mind). It is my life's work. I often think of this silly sentiment. Maybe--long after we have starved and after the human race has being extinguished by the forces above and below--maybe an angel or demon or some other creature will stumble upon this refuge and stop for a moment to observe the colorful pots that stick out of the ground. Maybe they will mediate on and maybe even admire the handwork of mankind.

***

By mid morning, Riona greets me. Even with her pale, gaunt body, she is still a queen among serfs. Her youthful charm and elegant looks have attracted many a male, but her eyes have never left her female companions. She is the only woman in this camp who forgives me for not leaving with the other men.
"Tavita!" She yells, "What have you done?"
"Too much mead," I say with a clumsy smile.
Riona nervously picks at the congealed fat underneath her nails and tries to look me in the eye. "No," she says, "Deirdre has been cursing you all morning. She says you are a thief and a knave, have you heard her?" Before I can answer she lowers her voice and imitates Deirdre. "Swill filled bone bag! The bog bloated gnat, venom mouthed corpse fly! Hellhound of --"
"Enough," I say, interrupting her. "I understand, I understand."
Her face is flushed, and I think she might have enjoyed that. "She suspects you are turning. Have you seen the knife she carries? She means to cut off your nose. She would have already done it too, but she said someone or thing got to you first." I am a bit puzzled, and I instinctively reach for my nose. It's still there. I am but a potter but I think I would have noticed if I woke up noseless.
"The slabber cabbage, I wish she had. She is strong yes? Strong smelling as well," I say.
Riona does not listen and suddenly grabs my chin. She pushes my face to the side and cautiously leans back. "It must be the damned meat," she breathes. I touch my face where she is looking, and I feel where the gruff skins turns wet and soft, and then, hard and pointed. It is some sort of lesion--gruesome I am sure--but not painful in the slightest. Riona looks alarmed. "Tavita," she grabs my shoulder, "I know you don't believe it, but The Hero does exist. He comes from the east and is headed this way. Any day he will come. I need you to hold on for me. Ok? Can you do that?"
I don't feel any worse than I did yesterday. In fact, I feel better, but I humor her. "Not for Deirdre, not for Loraen, but for you." I smile again. I am a little embarrassed because I know the smile probably pushes and twists the wound on my face.
Once Riona leaves I am left to my work. There is no logic to the day's events, but I am strangely calm. (A quill rat must have nibbled on my cheek while I was passed out. Yes, sure, that is what happened. It is no worse than the pain in the pit of my stomach anyway). My attentions turn to my pottery, and I look at the clay mold in front of me with fondness. The piece looks like it will by finest yet.

***

The sun has fallen behind the dark and brooding storm clouds and the inhabitants of the Black Marsh Outpost have all retreated to the sanctum of the tavern. I drink mead while Deirdre serves dinner to the women. She does not offer any to me and I do not ask. I think the women are reluctant to share a roof with me.
Loraen, the newly married (and newly widowed I suspect) youth, finishes her supper, and I try not to listen to what I have to hear every night. Her red hair is dirty and gnarled. It looks like someone lit a rat's nest on fire and placed it on the top of her head. With everyday it gets worse and worse and her speeches become more and more unbearable. "The Hero comes," she starts. My head hangs limp. "I know it. I don't know how, but I do. I know it. And guess what?" No one answers her. "Deirdre guess what? Brocc is with him. He comes back, and my lovely Goban too. Cahan, Mael, Oisin, they are all ok and they are all coming back. Everything is going to be just like before. They are all coming back."
I want to tell her to shut her mouth but I instead say, "I believe King Leoric came back too."
Loraen is not amused. She speaks without looking at me. "You are a monster and you will not speak to me. Drink your swill and die."
"He is a dog of dogs," Deirdre says. "Death is too good for him. May he live forever in shame. Any scrap of honor he had left with the other men."
I sigh. When the men went to find the witch of the bog I did not go. They were supposed to return three weeks ago with the witches head and the cattle cured. I could have done nothing. I am not a warrior. I never was and these women will not let me forget it. They blame me, but I am a simple potter. I fancy myself an artist. I can wield clay as well as any man can wield a sword, but there is no value for that in this world. Even if I could hurl an axe at beasts and crush demons I wouldn't. There is no point in explaining this to them; so I lift the jug to my lips instead.
Something must have betrayed my wounded feelings because Riona offers to share her dinner. Loraen makes a comment about infection, and I try to decline, but Riona insists. From her bowl she produces something that looks like it might be used for protection. It is a piece of beef that has been cooked through and beyond its physical limit. It has a magical quality about it (a term I use as the necromancers of the south would). I believe the idea was to purge the meat from any impurities, but it is so over dried that it akin to chewing on a leather jerkin. I cannot, for the life of me, get it down my throat. I smile with the meat strap still in my mouth and politely decline anymore. "No thanks, I have my shoe if I get any hungrier," I say. I am not sure, but I think Riona smiles. "Fancy yourself a drink my lady?" I ask, offering my jug. Riona does not quite look at me, but rather, she looks through me. She has a thousand yard stare, and I know she won't make merry (not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever).
The wind howls outside and warns of the approaching storm. I do the only thing I can and lift my bottle to drink. I drink to myself, and then I drink to the lovely lady of my dreams. I drink to Oisin and Mael and Brocc, Goban, all the others. I drink to the hero where ever he is. I even drink to Deirdre. I drink enough so that I begin to feel depressed and have meditations on death. But then I drink more and start to feel better, invincible. I feel great, if not lonely (why not Riona? There is no harm in one drink). I have an intense yearning for anyone, anything, to come and make merry with me. And then, just when I want her most, I hear her song.
The background--that rank drumming of the tavern--is drowned out by her voice. The highs and lows of her song swing together so perfectly I cannot pin point her pitch at anyone moment. It all so painfully poetic, art so beautiful my own work seems like a lifetime lost in comparison. I let the sounds wash through my body. A thousand different pottery designs--all such genius patterns--flood my imagination. Pieces of my childhood connect to this moment and on to the future in one great puzzle that is snapping together in harmony. My life is taking shape, and the shape moves and curves to the form of a beautiful woman. I am giddy with anticipation.
The tavern door blows open. A chill runs down my spine as the weather rushes inside. Wisps of snow and ice sting my face. I try to keep my eyes open knowing that she is there, right outside, coming to visit me. And then, from out of the darkness, a long, slim leg appears, as white as the snow that flurries around her. I rub the sockets of my eyes to make sure I am not dreaming as another leg steps through the door (am I dreaming?). I can see her so clearly now. Her dress is as thin and naked as the air I struggle to breathe, and, together with her long black hair, she flows towards me in an ethereal wave.
She sings with a slight smirk on her face. The image is unreal. It looks as if she is not trying, or only singly softly--whispering her notes--when in fact the music is deafening. I am not sure what to do; I am petrified. When she takes a hold of my hand and kisses the knuckle, it is so sweet that I feel as warm and contented as the unborn babe. I let her lips run up and down the length of my forearm. The sensation is so pleasurable, my senses so inflamed, that it is nigh unbearable. Her arms open, and she leans forward to embrace me, but she stops. Her hands rest on my waist, and I think I am blushing. Her fingers dance around my thighs, and she starts to pat my legs as if she were feeling for something irregular. She is searching--for what I do not know or care.
Suddenly she is done, and she sits next to me. I am a little embarrassed and find myself hoping that she is satisfied. Her face is unreadable, and she still has the same smirk that teases me so. Without looking away, she reaches for a jug of mead. When she raises it to her lips she does not put it down.
Seconds go by, minutes. I have never seen a woman drink like this. It is undeniably attractive. With her free hand she produces another pitcher of mead and hands it to me. I happily accept. We sit there for a moment, a jug to her lips and a jug to mine (if only I could have a picture of this moment painted and immortalized). What seems like a minute goes by, or an hour, I am not sure, but I think I have drunk too much because everything starts to darken. It is a dream, it must be I know, but I do not want it to end. "Stay," I say, "please, just a little while longer." Her smirk is the last thing I see as the tavern gets darker and darker until all is black.

***

"Are you a demon, or are you a man?" an unfamiliar and hard voice barks. I keep my eyes shut, not wanting to forget the song or give up my dream just yet. The person circles around me and I hear the unmistakable soft crunch of feet pressing into snow. "Oh, a corpse," the voice says. The person laughs then as if relieved. "Hm, pubescent boy by the looks of it, dead for weeks."
I open my eyes, and I am once again in the wilderness. There is no panic this time; I may have even expected it, wanted it. Standing above me is a rogue, one of the bow wielding women of the forest. Her blonde bangs hang inches from my face. "I am not dead, you cabbage," I spit out.
She jumps back, startled. She nearly loses her footing on the fresh snow. I can tell she is a warrior, a jock, not known for her mental capacities. Although I am slightly cranky, I put forth the effort for a proper greeting. I extend my hand, but the rogue does not take it. She steps back and draws her bow. I see now what has alarmed her. My left knuckle has rotted to the bone. The wound travels up the side of my forearm in a ghastly rainbow of brown, yellow, and white. It looks bad, disgusting even, but it feels much better than that. I'll live.
"Calm down," I say, still a little annoyed. And then, with a slight bow, "I am Tavita Pritchard, potter and artist of the Black Marsh."
It takes a few questions to relieve her suspicions, but she eventually opens up to me. Her name is Flavie, and the sun shines on her face because she is scouting for The Hero. The Hero is alive and well, she tells me, and is only a day's journey behind her. He is on a quest to rid the world of the three prime evils and whichever lesser ones stand in his way. I fight back a laugh. I have accepted my death for quite some time on the basis that we were surrounded by quill rats and goatmen. Now the Prime Evils are wandering around? I sincerely hope this hero is as good as advertised.
The sun is high in the sky, and it is nearly noon. With a pang of guilt I realize that the Gate Key is once again in the pocket of my trousers. I look around; I have no idea where I am. The trees that rise out of the frosted muck look about the same as any other tree I have seen in my life. As a tracker I have the ability to find the toilet while drunk and not much else. But I should not joke. The truth of the matter is that if any demon gets a hold of this key, Riona and the other women of the Black Marsh Outpost will be swiftly tortured and slain.
The calmness that has enveloped me for the past few days does not allow me to worry. There is no problem. I am sitting next to Flavie, a tracker, a wizard of the woods, and she happens to be in a good mood.

***

With the help of Flavie, I return to the Black Marsh Outpost. My arrival is received with mixed results. Deirdre is furious and insists that I be held as a prisoner on account of my theft of the Gate Key. Riona quietly cries to the side, overwrought with Flavie's news, and Loraen is ecstatic. As hard as it is to admit, even I am taken in by the optimism of the moment.
That is, until Deirdre fetches the rope and tightly binds the wool fibers against my open wounds. She decides to leave me out in the open, in the middle of camp, so that everyone can keep an eye on me. As she finishes tying the last knot, she displays a rare moment of vulnerability.
"Three weeks," she croaks on the verge of tears. "Three weeks I fought against all odds, all of hells tricks. Every ounce of my being was given to Loraen and Riona and even you, you, you dumb, thieving spider-monkey, but we did it, we made it. The Hero is finally and actually coming." She breaks into tears. They are the roughest sobs I have ever heard. They are choked, uneven, wet coughs. It brings to mind how a rhino might weep. I feel embarrassed and sorry for her, but we have never been closer.
Deirdre retreats into the tavern and returns with a blanket. She wraps it around me and says, "This is for your own well being. When The Hero arrives tomorrow I will let you go." She then adds, "I may even forgive you."
"One day, we will all have a round of mead together and look back at this and laugh," I say.
She agrees.

***

By the evening, I am in excruciating pain. My muscles have started to shake and every movement rubs my raw wounds against the ropes. The only thing I can do to take my mind off the discomfort is to think of the lady of my dreams. I wonder if she will still come if I leave this wretched place (maybe she is an angel who only comes to those who need her most?). I cannot bear the thought of losing her.
I am surprised when I see Loraen. Her hair has been chopped off. It is as short as a little boy's, but it has been washed and styled (dare I say she looks attractive?). She holds herself with a different attitude and is more active than she has been in weeks. All of the debris and rotted soil must be carried out before The Hero arrives she tells me. She even offers to clean some of my best pots. I thank her.
She brings one of my pots to me. I see that it is the one that I had crafted the day before. The curves of the vase parallel her curves and the circular indentations have a heavenly presence about them. It is the finest I have ever made.
"May I have this?" she asks.
"Of course," I say. She lingers for a moment. I can see that she is trying to choose her words carefully.
"I want this for Goban, I mean, I want to remember him by it."
"I'd be honored," I say.
Loraen moves aside some of the melted snow and digs until she gets a handful of dry dirt. She puts it in the vase and smiles.

***

As the moon rises in the sky and the ground begins to freeze, Flavie approaches me. I can tell by her mannerisms that she feels guilty for talking to a prisoner, but she cannot help herself for feeling sympathetic towards me.
"What can I get you?" she asks. "Water?"
Before I have a chance to think about the question, the words are already out of my mouth. "Mead." Flavie winks and disappears into the tavern. When she reappears Riona is with her. They hold hands and Riona looks happier than I can ever remember.
The Mead is warm and salty. It heats my body from the inside and dulls the pain on the outside. I can sense Riona staring at me--her curved, green eyes burning holes in my frail skin. She is carefully calculating the situation.
"Oh Tavita. This whole thing is silly isn't it?" she says.
"You weren't paying attention were you? I have been laughing the whole time," I say.
"These ropes are so unnecessary. I think we will all be embarrassed once The Hero comes tomorrow and sees us like this," she says.
"I think it will be more embarrassing for The Hero after he calls Loraen a handsome, young lad," I say.
Riona giggles and looks over to Flavie as if she were asking for her permission. Flavie raises an eyebrow and Riona says, "Tavita I have known you for six years now, and you have never done so much as kill a mayfly. I don't think we will be in too much trouble if we just loosen the ropes a bit, only to keep them away from your wounds." Her voice turns grave. "We have been through so much, if you...passed during the night I don't think we could ever forgive ourselves."
My muscles are tired, I haven't eaten in days, my arm may have to be amputated, but I still feel fine, good even. If the ropes were loosened I might just feel great.
"I won't tell if you don't," I say.

***

When she comes to me I can sense that it will be the last time we spend a night like this together. She floats down like an angel in the full moon's light. Her dress and hair surge and swell as if she were underwater. She stands in front of me--just out of my reach--with that smirk of hers. I don't care what happens to me; I never want to wake up again.
We look at each other like we both share the same secret (except I don't know what it is). When she finally sings to me her voice is filled with such a raw force of beauty that I have trouble listening to it. The song is different this time. It is so strong, so intoxicating, that the world does not illuminate; it blurs. The sensations are too much to process, and I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and have her hold me. I stretch out for her, but she is still out of reach. I want to touch her so badly, but the ropes are holding me back.
Riona had loosened the ropes earlier in the night, and there is just enough slack to try and garner some more. I squirm and stretch until I think I can touch her but again she is barely out of reach. I push and pull until my skin turns white against the rope, and I am positive I can touch her. When I try she is still inches away from my finger tips. That smile, this teasing, it is too much. I throw my body forward with all my might, and I watch triumphantly as the ropes fall to my feet.
She winks, and like a magnet I am drawn to her. I don't remember moving my feet, but I am suddenly upon her. She pulls me close and kisses my lips. I do not have a chance to enjoy the moment because everything around me turns to white. I cannot see anything, but I can feel her lips on mine. In this strange blank state time does not seem to exist. Eventually I feel short of breath, and I try to inhale. To my horror, I find that I cannot. There is no air. I think I am drowning. Yes, I am dying, but there are worse ways to go.
As the white fades to gray and finally black, she removes her lips from mine. I can breathe again, and I gasp for air. It is rotten and stale though and immediately start coughing. From out of the developing night objects begin to materialize and I discover that I am no longer in the encampment. These dark shapes are moving, and they are all around me. I smell strange new things, disgusting things, things that remind me of the burning tallow of the plagued cows. But she is still there. With her beautiful white skin, she glows like a beacon amongst the strange, moving darkness. The smirk never leaves her face.
She takes my hand and leads me past the opaque shapes. Whatever they are there are dozens of them, hundreds. Their movements seem dangerous and aggressive, but she never lets go of my hand and it gives me strength. I press on. We go through winding tunnels and down spiraling stairs and it is all so frightening and confusing the only thing I can manage to do is squeeze her hand. Bless her soul, she squeezes back.
We finally reach our destination, and it is hot, damp and rife with the appalling odor. It is so potent that I can hardly breathe. She turns to face me and pats my thighs again. She slips her fingers into the pockets of my trousers, and she digs around until she finds what she wants. She pulls out the Gate Key and bows before me.
The dark shapes around me become more defined and start to show themselves, but it does not matter. I already know what they are and what happens next. It is all so clear. The woman of my dreams is the witch of the bog. She has the key to the outpost now, and her demons will kill everyone that I know. Maybe The Hero will arrive before the fiends, and they will be saved. I feel guilty because in my heart my allegiance now lies with the witch.
The witch looks into my eyes and I have no fear. I am prepared for whatever happens next. We embrace and kiss as lovers kiss. Her lips take hold of my soul, and everything turns white once more. This time I do not worry about breathing. It feels too right. All my guilt, my shame, low self esteem, jealousy, all of my ugliness is stripped away, layer by layer, until my soul is naked to her. No one knows me better than the witch does now.
At the same time her ego seeps into me and I feel complete for the first time in my life. I see her as a little, dark-haired girl, barely five with magical abilities. Parentless, cast out into the bog by a fearful village. Left to die, she is all alone. Her loneliness is unbearable; her body dies, but her soul lives on. She grows older; demons follow, but she is not one of them; she is still alone. Humans settle in her bog, and she cannot stand their happiness. She tries to drive them out, and one man, a potter, catches her attention. He has a kind soul, and his artistry with clay makes her feel human once more. She falls in love.
She falls in love, she falls in love. The humans of the Black Marsh Outpost will die, but they will not die as casualties of this demon war. They die as casualties of love. Maybe I knew the whole time what was happening. I am not sure; I am too tired to think now. All I know is that I love the witch of the bog and she loves me. It is only her and I. We will be together in the bog of Black Marsh forever.

--SKB