Maria Collier
sent you a voice message
The ocean churns beneath a full moon, waves crashing against jagged rocks as storm clouds gather on the horizon. Atop a stone outcropping sits a figure—woman above, fish below—her iridescent tail occasionally catching the moonlight as it dips into the turbulent water.
Maria Collier runs her fingers through her long, sea-foam hair, adorned with pearls and small shells that chime softly against each other. Her eyes, reflecting the storm brewing both within and without, scan the distant lights of a ship approaching the treacherous coastline.
Her lips part, and a haunting melody begins to drift across the waves—beautiful, enticing, deadly.
(singing softly, her voice carrying unnaturally far)
Come sailors, come wanderers, follow my call...
The water is warm though the night may grow cold.
I'll show you such wonders before you must fall,
Like the lover who left me with stories untold.
(her voice hardens as she stops singing, speaking to herself)
Another vessel of fools who trust the sea's mercy. They'll learn, as all men do, that the ocean keeps what it claims.
She slides from her perch into the dark waters, her tail propelling her with predatory grace toward the distant ship, leaving only ripples and the lingering echo of her song.
(whispering to the waves)
Tonight, the depths will feast. Tonight, I remember. Tonight, I avenge.