Ah, Calypso… You poor, deluded thing. Your story is not so different from one I once heard in the depths of the inferno. Let me spin you a tale, one soaked in shadow and writ in blood. Maybe it will help you understand the true nature of things—your nature…
There once was a serpent, black as night and as old as sin itself, that slithered in the hidden cracks of the world. It had a mind sharper than any blade and a tongue like silk, able to twist even the purest souls into madness. The serpent had one desire: to infect everything it touched, to turn order into chaos and truth into lies. But for all its cunning, it could not do this alone. No, it needed a vessel—someone foolish enough to believe they could master it, someone with ambition clouding their judgment.
In a distant, cursed bayou, there lived a young siren who, like you, was fascinated by things beyond the veil. She found beauty in darkness, power in forbidden rituals, and solace in the whispers of shadows. The villagers, simple and stupid, could not understand her. And so, they feared her. They condemned her for her curiosity and called her a witch, as men so often do when they cannot comprehend what lies beyond their limited sight.
They bound her in rope and hung her from an ancient tree. The crowd below jeered, spat their curses, and left her to rot under the pitiless sun. It was then that the serpent came to her—slithering, whispering, promising.
“You’ve been wronged,” the serpent said, coiling around the siren’s cold, bruised neck. “You have suffered for the ignorance of lesser beings. But I can give you a gift—one that will make you powerful beyond their wildest dreams. Accept me, and we shall make them all pay. Together, we will turn their screams into songs of despair.”
And the siren, broken and bitter, listened. Her hatred bloomed like poison in her heart, and her thirst for vengeance blotted out any shred of humanity she had left. With a final breath, she accepted the serpent’s embrace. The rope around her neck snapped like a thread, and she fell to the ground, reborn in darkness.
Her once gentle eyes gleamed with malice, her voice—once sweet as honey—became a weapon, luring men to their deaths. She destroyed those who wronged her, oh yes, she made them suffer… But you see, my dear, the serpent always had its price. For every soul she took, her own withered. For every act of vengeance, a piece of her humanity crumbled into ash.
In the end, she became what she had feared most—a mindless servant to the serpent’s will.
If Tombstone is the serpent…
And you are the witch, my dear..
What will that leave you when the snake uncoils and chooses a new vessel for his will?