The Siren

There's a moment where nothing exists and then comes the familiar pain of Emory's curse, like her skin is melting against her bones.

Her body lurches, and she sits up in the bed she lays in. The sheets are white, thin, and scratchy, reminding her of the ones in hospitals, and she wonders why she would be at one. Then everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours hits her. Emory's entire body aches like she used her muscles for too long, and her shoulder, where her curse burns like a hot pot, has gotten bigger.

Memories of the demon she summoned comes back to her. Her coven being massacred in a matter of seconds. Walker saving her just before the demon could rip her apart. Walker getting his ass handed to him as he saved her. And then the stranger with honey blonde hair and green eyes, saving Walker and Emory. The demon slime possessing Walker. Demon possessed Walker protecting her.

The stranger. . . The stranger killing Walker. Emory's vision blurs with tears and she presses her hands against her mouth to muffle a sob. Everyone she knows is dead. There's a hollowness in her heart, a deep ache so different to her physical ones.

Emory lifts her head, sniffing as she wipes away the tears, her silver hair falling from over her shoulder, and there's a set of wide, blue, and pupiless eyes pushing into her line of view. Immediately the smell of rotting fish and salt water fills her nose and she chokes, her nose hairs burning at the putrid scent. The sudden weight of their body leans against her and they're so close that she has to lean back, to make sure their foreheads don't knock together.

"Dude," Her voice comes out hoarse and scratchy, her tongue thick and dry in her mouth. She smacks her chapped lips a few times to get more moisture and tries again, "It's called personal space," Emory puts her hand on their face, their skin as smooth as rubber and as slick as a snail and she immediately regrets touching them. An oddly flat nose against the heel of her palm twitches and she quickly pushes them back and off of her, snatching her now wet hand away from them.

The smell of a dead sea clings to it, and she curls her upper lip in disgust. Great.

There's quick shuffling, the bed beneath her creaking as the smelly person stands up. Emory's head tilts back to look up at the fish-like creature and she tries not to cringe at the Siren. It's not their fault they look like literal fish out of water, what with the fins everywhere, and a lack of a nose, and the open gills on his neck.

Emory has only met one siren in her life. She came to Priestess Promilias' apothecary and bought a huge amount of herbs meant to act like a morning after pill.

When she asked her Priestess why she looked like a ghoul fish, she scolded Emory for comparing her to one and then she realized that Emory could see the siren for who she was, and not what she wanted to see. They didn't realize it then, but that was due to her curse.

"Sorry," A raspy gurgle meets her ears and Emory's jaw clenches. Is it wrong of her to be uncomfortable simply for the way he looks, sounds, and smells? Her stomach flips with nausea and Emory groans. "You're just so. . ." His raspy voice trails off and then blinks his wide eyes at her.

She holds her breath, she really hates the smell of this Siren and she needs him on the other side of this room, yesterday. Or better yet, maybe he can just leave? It's probably best not to insult him though, so she keeps her thoughts to herself.

If you don't have anything nice to say, then say nothing at all. And she will not let herself become a Bexie.

"So . . . What?" Emory asks, raising an eyebrow when he doesn't continue and just stares at her with his unsettling pupiless eyes.

"Ugly." is what he says, the word so blunt and in his tone, factual.

For a moment Emory just stares at this fish - amphibian? Priestess Promilia or her other tutors didn't teach her much about their origins, just that they're deadly and to stay away if she can help it. Then she scoffs, her eyes widening because the fish said what? He said Emory is ugly?

And then she frowns and glares up at him, because why is it that no matter where she goes, or who she meets, they're always fucking mean to her? Emory sighs, her Goddess is cruel to her, indeed.

"Is that why you're all up in my space?" She snaps, "Because you find me ugly?" She gestures to where he had just sat on the edge of the bed she's in, almost on top of her lap.

There's an awkward crinkle between his eyes that pulls at his eyelids, revealing more of his eyeball and Emory tries not to react.

"Yes, it's quite a wonder." He says as he holds his hands behind his back and stands as stiff as a door knob in the middle of the room. She spots a chair next to the wall behind him, but doesn't point it out. She doesn't want him to think he can stay a while. Plus, she needs to figure out what the hell is going on and where she is.

She looks down at herself, and finds that she's not covered in blood, and she's wearing new clothes that certainly do not belong to her. It's loose grey sweats and a simple white T-shirt.

"It must be because you're old." He snaps his webbed fingers, drawing her attention back to him with her silver eyebrows furrowed, and he gestures a hand at her hair, "It's just so white."

"Silver." Emory snaps at him. Her hand reaches up to touch her hair, "It's silver, not white."