The waters surrounding Skellige had always posed dangers, yet they had never faced a curse before. Or so the locals murmured. Fishermen disappeared, vessels crashed against hidden reefs, and haunting melodies echoed over the sea at night. The Jarl of Hindarsfjall had called for a witcher, and Geralt of Rivia, perpetually attracted to the allure of gold and enigma, responded.
Upon reaching the location, the atmosphere was charged with salt and apprehension. The Jarl’s hall thrived with anxious men and women sharing the terrors that tormented them. The songs, they claimed, bewitched men toward their demise. Some mentioned sirens, while others referred to wraiths. One truth was undeniable—whatever lay beneath the surface was unnatural.
Geralt listened, his expression inscrutable. He had battled sirens previously, but they had never shown such audacity. A sailor, the lone survivor of a maritime disaster, asserted he had glimpsed their faces—stunning, yet contorted by hunger. Their eyes shimmered in the shadowy waters, and their song resonated with feelings of grief and yearning.
The witcher readied himself. He applied moon dust oil to his silver sword, packed bombs infused with dimeritium, and embarked that evening in a small vessel. He had realized long ago that to pursue a monster, one must first become prey.
The waters were unsettlingly tranquil. A fog rolled in, obscuring the shoreline. Then, the singing commenced. It was eerily beautiful, each note a strand of magic tugging at his consciousness. He resisted it, whispering a Quen sign under his breath as a protective barrier glimmered around him.
From the abyss, forms surfaced. Five sirens, their upper bodies chillingly human but their lower halves adorned with shimmering scales. They swirled around his boat, their dark eyes locked onto him. One of them, taller than the others, swam nearer.
“Witcher,” she said, her voice a tune in itself. “You pursue what you do not comprehend. ”
Geralt squinted. “You have been luring sailors to their demise. ”
“We do only what is essential for survival. ” The leading siren—Lirien, as she introduced herself—lifted a webbed hand. “The sea was once ours entirely. But men shape the waves as if they were theirs to govern. They contaminate our waters, seize our sustenance. We only reclaim what has been taken. ”
Geralt pondered her words. It was uncommon for monsters to engage in reasoning, even more unusual to speak of justice. He had faced beings before who killed from necessity, and humans who slaughtered from avarice. The distinction between monster and man often blurred more than individuals preferred to acknowledge.
“Is there an alternative? ” he inquired.
Lirien paused, her dark eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. “There is always an alternative. But your kind does not heed. ”
A ship appeared in the fog behind them, its crew blissfully ignorant of the threat. The sirens shifted their attention toward it, their craving clashing with the witcher’s words. Geralt recognized his opportunity. With the Axii sign, he projected a wave of soothing magic toward them. Lirien shook her head, resisting, yet the younger sirens hesitated.
“Let me negotiate peace,” he stated. “A pact with the Jarl. Safeguarding your kind in return for theirs. ”
Lirien examined him, the melody on her lips diminishing. The other sirens whispered in doubt. At last, she consented. “One opportunity, Witcher. ”
Geralt journeyed back to Hindarsfjall, fatigued but determined. The Jarl, although doubtful, listened. After extensive discussions, a pact was established. Fishing routes were modified, sacred waters remained untouched, and in exchange, the sirens halted their lethal songs.
For the time being, the equilibrium remained. However, Geralt understood that peace was a delicate matter, as transient as foam upon the waves. Yet, for one night at least, the waters were tranquil.
