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In a seat at the bar of The Wailing Griffon, a tavern in the slums of Ranara, an aging warrior talks as much as he drinks, and he drinks way too much. These are his tales...

The Job with the Songless Siren and the Leaky Galleon 
​ by Nathan Dain                       (Title by Sarah J Ascher)

Magic sucks. It may sound like I'm beating a dead troll with its own club, but really, magic is not your friend, never will be, and will lie to your face to convince you otherwise. Even creatures who, by their very nature, are entwined with the stuff get screwed over by it.

Don't believe me? I'll give you just one of hundreds of examples to prove my point.

Years ago, when I was young, dumb and full of... stamina, when I didn't yet have the animosity toward the unnatural that I do now, I was hired by a rich merchant to sail across the Accostian Sea with about thirty other random swordsmen to fight a private war that I don't really remember the details to. We were all crammed into the hold of this rather majestic galleon, the Glorious Fortune, to sail just under a day's travel so we could arrive at night and kick all kinds of ass with the element of surprise. The day had slid toward evening, and all of us were finally beginning to feel the excitement of the upcoming battle building in our bellies. Enough so, that it was someone's bright idea that we should all get as ready as possible right then, donning our armor, fitting our scabbards, and situating our supplies. Not really the wisest of moves for the vast majority of those on board.

Because, out of nowhere, a gut-wrenching rip of thunder pounded the ship a heartbeat before the sea became a watery mountain range, tossing the ship with the first of many jarring lunges. Outside, a wind climbed to a screech of unnatural fury and it seemed there was suddenly more wet above us than below as torrential rain poured in through the cargo grates.

The biggest problem with wearing armor and having an assortment of heavy metal bits strapped to your body is that you tend not to float. This proved to be a problem for everyone on the ship but me. Being young, I didn't have as much skill in... anything really, but I still had my phenomenal physique and legendary lung capacity. Which, when the galleon laboriously capsized, allowed me to get clear of the ship and search for someplace to go. Alas, no one else was me, which meant they quickly succumbed to their own inability to be me, and sank.

Once clear of the floating coffin, though still surrounded by debris, a wave that had to be at least three times of what the height of the galleon's main mast had been, hoisted me up to a dizzying height before frothing with dingy gray foam along its crest granting me a much needed view of my surroundings. At the same time, a distant lightning strike backlit exactly what I was looking for, a pretty sizable island not far off. Near enough that I could make the swim in short order.

However, even then I subscribed to the belief of work smarter, not harder. There was a door floating nearby, easily large enough for two to climb up out of the freezing water, so I hitched a ride and let the massive swells surge me closer to the island, which seemed to be the direction they really wanted to go. Having overcome the whole drowning thing, the real trick was to make landfall without getting pulverized by the insanely large waves, and it all came down to timing, and of course my tremendous natural agility.

A monster swell, the largest by far, rose up behind me as the island's beach came into view, and instead of riding the heaving water up and letting it pass, I kicked for the forming incline that was fast becoming a cliff face of liquid. Gravity took over. The wave crested, and curled over me, but by angling the door, I was able to fall gracefully along the surface just ahead of the thundering crash of tons of ocean trying to claim me. Picking up speed, hurtling down toward a broad sandy ground, and watching the falling water close in on me, I dug in the corner of the door at the last moment in a flash of counter-intuitive genius. The final sharp angle of descent and the velocity I was traveling gave me more than enough oomph to shoot straight up the face of the wave and over the top, beating out the crest by a mere heartbeat and landing on the relative calm behind the angry frothy bit.

Climbing on top of the door, I was rushed forward by the then-collapsed wave up a steep incline of sand to just shy of a cluster of boulders, and there the door stopped. Another flicker of lightning and its following boom reminded me that getting out of the ocean didn't mean I'd gotten out of the wet.

No sooner than I deftly ascended the large rocks did a cacophonous explosion like an entire forest being felled at once shake the earth behind me. Where my door had been moments before, there was now the Glorious Fortune, still upside down, and looking less seaworthy than it had the last time I saw it. The ocean apparently didn't want it.

And that was the last of the big waves. Almost immediately, the turbulent waters calmed from murderous into merely terrifying and unnavigable. Though the storm must have thought it should make up for the difference, because the flashes and crashes doubled and the downpour became a solid sheet of blinding water.

Shelter from the storm seemed like a good idea at that point, and after an unsuccessful glance around the nearby treeline, I strongly suspected those long spindly things wouldn't do the trick. I turned back to the galleon, and about the only thing still firmly intact was its keel. The planks that had formed its underbelly had shaken loose, some completely fallen off in the landing.

But... there was a large opening in the boards near enough, and the newly calmed surf was just washing up to the very base of the heap, leaving the bottom deck cum top deck clear of the tide. It was probably the best I'd find anytime soon.

Hopping down the rocks and up to the jagged entrance, I climbed up the rudder and into the hold. It was dark, and damp, and the rain did its best to leak through every joint in the once watertight Glorious Fortune, but on the bright side, all of the supplies the ship had been hauling apart from soldiers were still there. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with a literal ton of silk undergarments, but the thirty barrels of pickled herring meant I wouldn't be going hungry soon, and the storm was doing a good job providing fresh water. I could be worse off.

A time spent fastening the few tarps I'd found to the curved ceiling granted me a relatively dry spot for me to lie, and I'd made a pretty nice bed of silk thongs, breeches and corsets, though the boning did tend to poke in odd places. And, of course, there was no way I was going to have fire. Everything was so wet, even if I'd had a spark, I'd never get it to light.

Stripped down and covered in mostly dry silk, I tried to get some sleep.

I dreamt of a woman, calling out in vain for the return of her love. And of thunder and lightning, but I suspect that was just because the storm never let up.

The next day, it was still extremely wet. The perpetual clouds kept the sun at bay, and the near constant rumbling of the crashing waves and thunder made it difficult to hear much.

I did venture out once, only to find that, at least on this side of the island, there wasn't anything alive larger than an insect, though there were a shocking number of shipwrecks dotting the beach and nearby cliffside. Quite a few of my former colleagues had also washed up here and there, but all of them retained the title of former on account of being dead.

The lone mountain in the center of the island was visible the entire time I was out, and through the haze of downpour I couldn't make out much more than it looked craggy. Maybe there were trees on it, maybe not. Hell, from where I stood, it could have been a volcano for all I could tell.

So, I went back to the not-so-glorious-nor-fortuitous Glorious Fortune and waited.

I don't usually like to wait. Normally, I determine a goal, set my focus upon it, achieve it with overwhelming power and persistence, and then move on to the next. The never-ending oppressive rain dampened that spirit a smidge. I certainly wasn't giving up on anything, but I did think it was perhaps best to try and wait out the storm.

So, I continued to wait.

And wait.

When I slept, I once again dreamt of a woman, searching for something lost. There was a yearning in her hoarse voice that turned what might have been benign into something on the verge of nightmare. Not terrifying, just really sad.

I woke. It was day. The storm annoyingly persisted. It became night. I slept.

This time, my mind finally pieced together the reality of the dream and woke me with a start. There, on the edge of the howling wind and in between the shattering crashes of thunder, there was a woman's voice. It was neither young nor old, but it was filled with sorrow and pain.

I scrambled from my nest of undies over toward the hole to see what I could in the inky blackness. Fortunately, the storm was there to help me out with a triumphant series of nearly blinding flashes of lightning. Clear as day, there was a slender woman walking along the treeline in what looked like a long elegant evening gown.

Even young and inexperienced, I had the common sense for this to set all of my hackles on end and send me scurrying for my sword. There was no earthly reason a damsel should be walking sensuously along a storm ravaged beach on a deserted island in the middle of the night.

I even had the sense to take the extra time to put on clothes, armor, shield, helmet, and boots. I took to the idea of living through danger at a very early age.

Rushing out and up the boulders into the raging darkness, I found the occasional flash did give me moments of sight, but the roaring surf, chest-heaving thunder, and cacophonous deluge meant I was mostly deaf as well as blind. And then there was the precarious muddy footing. Not a great way to charge into a situation, but as I said, I was young and dumb.

Despite all of that, I could still hear the melancholy pleading in the distance. With my impeccable balance, I made my way and quickly closed on the woman, catching only glimpses of her ethereal form frozen in each blue/white flash.

Finally I was close enough to grasp at the words she wailed, yet it was in a language I'd never heard before, and not one I welcome now that I know what it was. I held my sword (a fine one-handed deal, but nothing like my greatsword, Kelly, that I wield today) in a standard Piccoro stance as I yelled out, “Why is a maiden walking this desolate beach on such an evening?” I could barely hear my own voice over the din of the storm.

In contrast, her reply rang clear like a bell over a still lake, even though she spoke casually, “Oh. The survivor.” She was hoarse, strained from her calls. Another flicker of lightning presented the pale ghostly image of a stunningly beautiful woman staring at me no more than an arm's length away. “I could ask the same of you.”

I'm not ashamed to say that I jumped. I didn't have the fortitude and diamond nerves that I do today. That, and she was damned creepy.

“I am not just a survivor, my lady! I am Bram Thunderfist, swordsman extraordinaire!” I'd be damned if I knew how her voice cut through like it did. Mine sounded like a mouse squeaking next to a waterfall. Not that I'm meek or lacking in any way. I mean look at me, I'm as barrel chested as they come. I just mean that nature is rather formidable when it's having a temper tantrum.

Huskily, filled with a sensual drawl of raw need, her whisper was hot in my ear, even though she clearly hadn't come any closer. “A swordsman you say. Perhaps you're exactly what I need.”

“Um. Excuse me?”

“Follow. There's a place nearby where we can talk, where it's dry and warm. Unless you'd prefer to stay out here?”

I was torn, to say the least. On the one hand, nothing about this was right. On the other, a gorgeous woman was inviting me out of a terrible, freezing storm with a voice I could practically have sex with.

Did I mention I was young and dumb?

I sheathed my sword. “Lead the way.”

Warily following the woman, I was amazed how she could make her way without any light other than the occasional flashes. Really, that should have convinced me right then and there that all of my other instincts were spot on, that this situation was bad news. But she kept talking, giving me pointers on where to step, when to duck, and I kept trailing along behind, curious as to who she was, and what answers she held.

Between bouts of utter blackness, I oriented myself in the brief blazing reliefs of colorless contrast. We reached a trail hidden from my previous outing, then headed toward the mountain, but instead of climbing, slipped into a valley nestled up to the rising earth. A few more turns of the path, and a point of warm light reached out to us from the darkness.

I suppose you could call our destination a cave, it was after all in the side of the mountain, but it wasn't anything so primitive as that suggested. There were lamps lining the front landing area outside of a front door, illuminating a sizable garden on either side of the path. Multiple windows with wooden sills and glass provided a glance of slightly parted curtains inside, a rich velvety red framing a comforting glow.

My guide hurried these last few steps, and for the first time I was able to see how smoothly her movement glided over the ground. She was easily the most graceful creature I had ever seen up until that point. She was also weirdly trusting, opening the door without a key, then murmuring over her shoulder without looking at me, “Let's get out of this rain, shall we?”

The entry was like a foyer one might expect in a mansion, carpets of maroon and brown, deep rich woods covering the walls and ceiling, grand archways of fine craftsmanship led deeper into the home, and where the stone did show, it was polished and gleaming in the lamplight, grey with streaks of brown and black. Paintings of people and landscapes tastefully hung the walls, a little round mahogany table sat in the middle of the room with a bowl of odd looking fruit, and next to the door we'd just come through, a coat and weapons rack.

In front of me, my hostess was... odd.

Out in the storm, I hadn't been able to get a good look at her. Sure, she sounded as seductive as a naked nymph doing gymnastics, but there was only so much detail you could get from the epileptic strobing of rapid-fire sheet lightning. In here, the lighting was soft, and she was... cold. And wet. Very wet. Her gown looked to be made of finely woven seaweed, and her hair was long, black and ropey. There was a definite drowned corpse feeling in the air. And I'd still only been looking at her back.

Clearing my throat, I muttered in a voice that was way louder than I was expecting, “Um, I don't believe I caught your name.”

She turned.

I drew my sword.

Her face was white. Not the pale of the very fair, or the pasty of the terminally ill, but iridescent, brilliant white. And her arms were... arm-like, if arms didn't have bones and resembled snakes with fingers for heads. And there was something wrong with her neck. It undulated. I was pretty sure necks didn't typically do that.

She didn't move, which was probably what saved her life, but she did open her mouth to speak, and that didn't help her chances any. Her teeth were row upon row of pointy nastiness, like she hadn't thought two fangs would have been enough and decided multiple lines of them would get the job done. But the words that came out had the same sensuous croon I'd listened to all the way there. “My name is Sally.”

“Sally?”

“Yes. I'm sure you've noticed by now that I'm not human.”

“You don't say.”

“I am a siren, and I would like to hire you.”

I've never been the seafaring type, and at the time had only ridden a few ferries across some rather large rivers, but even I had heard of sirens. Typically, they weren't something you'd want to come within speaking distance of, unless you were deaf or had really good earmuffs. It was something about their voices that made the world all rainbows and bunny rabbits, until they ate you. Though, something here felt off. Yes she had a voice that could raise the flag of a dead man, but there wasn't anything more than that. No mind-melting pull that would convince me to gut myself and offer up a spleen.

So I stared at her a moment, nodded, and said, “Go on.”

“Something was taken from me, and I would like your help getting it back.”

“Something on this island took something... from you?”

“Well, kind of. Maybe 'took' is the wrong word. 'Left' might be more accurate. Or maybe that it took itself.”

“You're not all there, are you?”

“Exactly!”

There was an enthusiasm there that made zero sense, so I tried again. “You're a siren?”

“Yes.”

“But you're not trying to eat me.”

“Oh no. I gave up human flesh a while ago. I've gone vegan.”

“You're a vegan siren?” I didn't know that was even possible.

“Don't get me wrong, spinach is an absolute nightmare to eat with these teeth, but I feel much more at peace with my life choices.” Then she turned her back on me and headed into one of the other rooms, unconcerned by my sword still wavering in her direction. “Come. Dry yourself. Get warm. I'll get us a little bite to snack on. I make an absolutely decadent chocolate eclair.”

Even at that young age, my ability to gauge danger was exceptional, and while I knew she was dangerous, I quickly accepted that she wasn't necessarily a danger to me. So, I sheathed my sword and followed.

She set us up by a fireplace in a sitting room that closely resembled the foyer, but here there were large comfortable chairs, and lots of little round tables with doilies on every one. After a cup of tea and a marvelous eclair that convinced me there was a right way to be vegan, Sally told me her story.

“By the way you reacted, you've probably heard stories about my species, and I dare say, if they're horrible, they're most likely true. I was raised the youngest of an unloving family. My mother was a hag—well not technically—and my sisters were spitting images of the woman... and of course I had no father, on account of him being eaten by my mother upon my conception. As I grew, I was always unhappy, and I knew that eventually I'd have to find my own shoal or maybe island, and continue the family's way of life, using our magical songs to ensnare hapless sailors for an evening meal. More tea?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

“So, I eventually found this island, made it my home, and as year after miserable year passed, time proved that I was quite capable at the task at hand. My mother would have been proud.

“Then one evening, I landed a ship that changed my life. It was the night I met Paul.”

“The love of your life?”

“What? Oh, no. Not at all. Paul was a wrinkly old man with one leg. Certainly not someone I would choose to mate with. No, Paul was the last survivor of the Bella Donna, and after I'd eaten the rest of his crew, I was entirely too full to continue. I'd decided to keep him around so he'd stay fresh. But what I hadn't realized was how devastatingly lonely I was, and how my life was just a monotonous drudgery of eating unwitting men.

“While I continued to not eat him, Paul told me stories of far away places, exciting my imagination in ways I'd never thought possible. He instructed me on the value of books, of which I'd already collected a great many that had come ashore due to their beautiful illustrations. He guided me in the arts of cooking and gardening, carpentry and chemistry. He taught me that a man could be more than just a lay and a buffet, and for the first time in my life, I could understand that I was a monster. I'd never liked who I was, but now I understood why.”

I was just finishing a third of her amazing pastries, and pointed with my fork, “What ever happened to him?”

Her shoulders slumped as she gazed wistfully out the window into the stormy night. “He passed a few years ago of old age. I buried him near the edge of the garden. The first and only sailor I'd ever buried.”

“Oh. Well, it sounds like Paul was a swell guy.”

Gently, she chuckled, “He was a shriveled, one eyed, one legged coward, who coughed balls of phlegm and farted all the time. And he was my friend.”

We sat in silence for a while, listening to the fire crackle and the rain harmlessly batter furiously against the window pane.

One more helping of chocolaty goodness, and another cup of tea, brought me to finally break the quiet. “Um. So you mentioned you need me to get something back for you?”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. I guess I didn't really finish my tale, did I? Well, after Paul had passed, I devoted myself to my new life. I'd never been happier, but there was an itch I couldn't quite scratch.”

I smiled despite myself. “Still craving man-meat?”

“Not exactly. You see, since I was no longer luring men to their deaths, I was no longer using my song as it was meant to be. It was growing restless. It yearned to be sung and reap life in a crescendo of lustful passion. Instead I just used it to keep the birds from eating my plants and crapping on my sidewalk. Not the esteemed operatic climax such magic was intended for.”

“Wait, hold on. You're saying your song was unhappy? But isn't it a part of you?”

“You aren't very familiar with magic, are you?”

“Well... no. Not really.”

“Magic very often has a mind of its own, even the magic that dwells within the bowels of a creature such as myself. It's fickle, and wonderful, and terrifying, and wants nothing more than to be what it wants to be. And for far too long, I was stifling it.”

“So... what? You're not stifling it anymore?”

“Three days ago, it got out. A part of my soul tore itself free and fled from me, up the mountain to dance, and frolic, and rage to its eternal delight. My song is no longer a melody, but a cacophony of destruction. It is the cause of this endless storm, and unless I can get it back, it will ravage this island till the end of time.”

“Huh.” I wasn't sure what to say to that, so I added, “Weird.” Then as an afterthought asked, “You do know that I'm a swordsman, right? Like, I'm not sure what I can do against a thunderstorm. I mean, I'll give it a try, but my arms are only so long.”

“I doubt I'll need your sword, but your brawn is quite impressive. I think you will be more than enough to lead me to where I need to go. But not tonight. Tonight and tomorrow, you rest, and tomorrow night we leave at sunset to retrieve what is mine.”

Thinking back on it, I realize we didn't talk about payment, but from the treasures she had just lying around, I must have figured she was good for it. Naive of me, sure, but I've learned a lot since then.

The room where she placed me to rest was just as nice and ornate as every other room in the strange cliff dwelling, and aside from a little mustiness in the air, I finally got a length of good sleep without wires poking my backside or salty dampness coating my forehead.

The storm was still storming when I awoke sometime after noon. I'm not sure if Sally slept, I'm not sure if she even needed to, but a meal of savory pasta with veggies and crumbly bread waited for me upon my emerging from slumber. I have to say, she was one of the better chefs I've ever come across.

The afternoon passed. We chatted, I kinda overcame my innate unease around her wobbly, drowned body, and we prepared ourselves for the upcoming trials. When I asked why we had to wait till sundown, she explained a little more about the magic of sirens.

Turns out, their powers wane during the day, and wax during the night. That was why she was strolling the shores in the dark, her connection with her song was stronger then, and she was trying to coax it down from its perch. So far, luring it down hadn't been going too well for her. Even so, she figured at night would be the only time she would be able to reabsorb the wandering melody, and while she'd stopped trying to climb the mountain on her own because the storm would intensify and make the pass leading up unassailable every time, with my help, this night we'd tackle the mountain together and go to its roost for a little reunion.

Sounded like a reasonable idea. And dangerous. I was all in.

With my astounding strength, I figured the climbing itself shouldn't be too bad. Not to mention, buried in one of her store rooms were multiple full sets of climbing gear, one of the many shipments she'd plundered from all of her prey over the years.

So, the sun set, or so she said, and we set off. Against her advice thinking it would be heavy, I wore my armor and sword sheathed at my hip. After all, what kind of swordsman would I be if I didn't have my sword. Besides, she didn't know me very well. My gear had already become like a second skin and hindered me about the same.

The climb wasn't bad at all. I guess the storm got stronger the higher we got, and yes, there were some steep bits, and some slippery bits, but nothing a pick and some phenomenal dexterity and fortitude couldn't manage. My main concern had been the lightning, but Sally assured me that it wasn't a problem and left it at that.

I suspect what had given Sally such trouble on her solo attempts was that she was remarkably light and not terribly swift. I found that out after one particularly powerful gust caused her to lose her footing. I nimbly caught her by her cold slimy—for lack of a better word—wrist, and swung her parchment-light body back to relative safety. She'd felt like little more than a child's doll in my hands... that had been dipped in oil and given razor blades for teeth.

I have a strong suspicion that without their magic, sirens are wiggly, vaguely sexy, pincushions-in-waiting: not terribly evolved in the offense or defense departments, and the teeth, while horrifying and more than a little intimidating, were probably more for eating than attacking.

Through the wailing winds and horizontal rainfall, we eventually emerged out from the storm into a cylinder of perfect calm at the topmost point of the peak. There was even a column of moonlight shining directly down through the towering churning cyclone. Smack dab in the middle, there was a massive beige conch shell about the size of my chest raised up on boulder. It had a faint iridescent sheen and a black line smeared out from the crease that spiraled out from its center. I couldn't help but wonder how the hell that thing got all way up there? It wasn't like floppy Sally could have dragged it, and a shriveled, one eyed, one legged Paul wasn't a likely candidate either. Whatever the case, I had a strong sense that the honkin' conch was the source of our troubles.

Probably because the conch was singing: the eerie melody evoked a longing that tickled the back of my brain.

“So... what do we do now?”

Sally looked at me with a hint of sadness, then nodded. “It's using the shell to keep itself stable. Damaging it should force it out, at which point I will take it back into me, forcing it back into submission.”

“Um. That doesn't sound too friendly. You don't think it'll fight back?”

“Oh, I'm certain it will. But we belong together. Neither of us can survive for long without the other.”

“Well, yeah, sure. That makes sense and all, but that whole subjugation thing seems to be what started this mess, right? I mean, maybe... I don't know, strike a balance?”

For the first time since we met, Sally glared at me, and her eyes were like really icy... eyes of glaring-ness. “By eating only every other sailor I come across? I do not need you to tell me how to handle my magic.”

“Yeah. Alright. Fine. Whatever. Shut my mouth, smash the giant seashell. You do your thing, I'll do mine. I'm good with that.” It wasn't like I was afraid of the creature, I wasn't. I simply didn't see the need to piss her off.

The swirling clouds surrounding us flickered a round of lightning, and the ensuing rumbling crash pressed on my skull and made my ears ring. Despite that, the mournful wordless crooning never once left my head.

I shrugged, drew my sword, walked up to the shell, and gave it a whack. Predictably, my superb form and stunning musculature delivered a devastating blow rendering a thick crack that shot around the natural corkscrew of the conch. What was somewhat surprising was that, after the count of two, the entire shell exploded into a shower of fine rainbow-hued dust that was nevertheless still more or less conch-shaped. This also caused the song to pause.

Not wanting to risk inhaling magical raging song dust, I quickly took a step back and allowed my client to do her part.

Arms wide, head back, lit by moonlight and distant strobes of tempest, Sally glided forward to accept her prize.

The prize accepted her back. The ethereal cloud of death sparkles snapped to her skin, writhing along her clothes to her face, and pulsing as a pearlescent sheen in a rush to enter through every orifice. A low moan rose above the deafening roar of rain and wind until it crescendoed into a shriek of insurmountable despair.

It didn't sound like she was having a good time. And then she started to convulse. Her limbs whipped like wet rags, and it became obvious she was no longer touching the ground. Her long stringy hair lashed ahead of the jerking unnatural cricking of her neck flailing around and side to side. All the while, the scream continued to grow louder and louder between my ears.

Two smothered heartbeats pounded in my chest, and the shriek morphed into a maniacal high-pitched laugh, one of those you always get from bad guys about to do bad things.

With her back to me, Sally touched down lightly on her feet, head hung low, shoulders slumped, but the laugh kept on going.

Knowing this wasn't good, I still felt I should check. “Sally? How you feeling?”

The laugh died into a chuckle, into a hiss. “How dare a meat sack speak to a superior being.”

“Now, Sally. That wasn't very nice.”

“Sally was weak.” Turning, the siren formerly known as Sally looked at me with vacant white orbs. “I don't intend to let her have her way any longer.”

That growing discomfort that had been itching my brain began to swell with a hum of lust. This really wasn't good.

To prove my point, the song flicked a long forked tongue along Sally's lips, and giggled, “To celebrate, I think we're going to devour you, bit by bit. You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?”

In horror, it occurred to me that I actually might.

And there you have it, the perfect example of how magic sucks. It belonged to a perfectly nice monster then took her over and forced her to become a murderous man-eater.

​You know how it is.

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