Sangris Dahila
adult • intersex, bigender (male & female). any pronouns • siren • abysstide market • surgeon, merchant/vendor, organ harvester
Your vision swims. Just moments before had you been at sea with your crew, exploring the newest salt trade or school of fish. Now you're underwater in a cave, choking, lungs devoid of air and tight in your chest. You see flashes of red scales before you, though you barely register them before they're scooping you up and bringing you to a pocket of air at the ceiling of the cave. The siren allows you to collect yourself and rub your eyes before pinning you back down to the seafloor like how a dolphin plays with prey. When you fully come back to your senses, you really see your captor for the first time: a broad-shouldered, pudgy betta-siren, with long, salt-caked hair and an almost lovestruck look in their eyes.
They wave a seaglass blade in your face, back and forth. The current it generates pushes your hair from your vision. You almost think they are taunting you, but their expression really doesn't read as so. Before you fully comprehend what they're doing, they push the tip of the blade into your throat--a skin wound, but it aches like all hell. You seize up in pain, but as you do the siren drags their scalpel down between your pectoral muscles. It catches the fibers of your clothes, stretching and cutting holes into it where the siren cuts deeper than they mean to. The thinning, red blood where the blade slices effortlessly through your skin billows out from the wound and leeches into the saltwater around you. Everything's starting to feel distant as you quickly go pale in the face. The siren almost grins. They get off of you, now standing on the seafloor, and rake their hand through their hair as they breathe heavily.
Their next few words are simple and sweet. They sigh and compose themselves before they speak in a thick accent: "I'm getting too excited." They loose all the eagerness and intrigue in their behavior at once with this proclamation. "You won't last like that. I'll make this harvest quick."
Things started out innocent enough for Sangris Dahila. They picked up their passion for medicine from their mother, Rosalinda Dahila, who passed it down to them from a long lineage of sirens working in medical fields. When each child grows to an adult, they take on their Hippocratic oath, given to them by their mother; swear by the gods they will not willingly harm the patients they serve or seduce their patients, be they a king or a commoner.
As she was a midwife, Rosalinda taught them the basics of the human body and how to care for merfolk young and old. When Sangris wanted to know more beyond the scope of their mother's understanding, she provided the young mind with scrolls and textbooks and stories. When these resources no longer satisfied Sangris's lust for knowledge, Sangris went out hunting for game, bringing home their winnings to cut open and replicate the diagrams laid out before them on kelp parchment. They could name every artery in a siren's tail by heart. If you asked, they'd trace their claws over where the veins bulge out under the scales, murmuring names in a voice so soft it might as well be communion.
As time went on, their interest morphed into something upsetting, something greater. They couldn't resist the warmth of a dead body. Even when they weren't hungry, they'd sing so loudly on the shorelines they'd lure whole crews of sailors to their demise. They'd take home the drowned bodies of these humans just to see what makes them tick beneath the skin and fat. Nobody looks at a carp corpse and thinks it could be made beautiful. Well, nobody except for Sangris, of course.
After the death of the king and the ensuing battles that attempted to take over the throne, Rosalinda's clinic was flooded with wounded soldiers and assassins. The work was overwhelming, especially since grown men wounded from harpoons and swords is nowhere near her expertise, but Sangris was more than happy to lighten her workload. As soon as the public caught wind of the names of the Dahila's, everyone wanted to kill the medics as to severely wound the opposing forces' chances of victory. They found Rosalinda, maimed her in minutes. She would never live to see her child grow up to be a doctor.
There was a thrill in knowingly breaking a theoretical Hippocratic Oath, but Rosalinda had died before she could properly bestow it upon Sangris. They were unbridled, free to weld their scalpel however they please.
Left destitute by the raids on their mother's clinic, Sangris needed to carve out a life for themselves somehow. Surgery alone wasn't paying off the debts they owed to the marketplace. Thus, they picked up the corpses they used to study and monopolized a siren's natural-born urge to kill, setting their sights on filling a niche that nobody else was demented enough to fill: the organ trade. They carved out a corner for themselves in the black market, their little booth rung with cut-up pieces of their winnings. They couldn't care less what you used the meat for, but if you needed a transplant for your soldiers, they'd do it for free just because they loved it... but don't come crying to them if your men turn up sick the next day.
Sangris possesses a peculiar brand of sincerity. They might genuinely come across as a comforting presence, almost like a therapist, capable of listening intently and offering what seems like empathetic understanding. This isn't a facade; on a fundamental level, Sangris holds a baseline appreciation for all living things. It's a twisted reverence, perhaps, that allows them to appreciate the intricate workings of a body even as they plan its dissection. This unique sincerity can manifest in unsettling ways, such as when they sometimes listen to their prey, truly listen, perhaps offering a final, macabre form of comfort before their inevitable demise. It's this chilling blend of genuine interest and ultimate predation that makes Sangris so unnervingly sincere.
When it comes to their professions, Sangris is nothing short of studious. Their primary passion lies in medicine, and they approach the complexities of anatomy, physiology, and surgical techniques with an almost insatiable hunger for knowledge. They're constantly poring over ancient texts, experimenting with new methods, and refining their skills with meticulous dedication. More recently, however, Sangris has recognized the need to expand their expertise beyond the operating table. To optimize their lucrative organ trade in the black market, they've begun diligently learning about marketing and sales, devouring treatises on negotiation, supply and demand, and client psychology. This commitment to continuous learning, even in such illicit fields, highlights their intellectual drive and uncalculated ambition.
Sangris's enthusiasm for their work is palpable, radiating from them in an almost infectious way. They don't just tolerate their professions; they love what they do with an intense, almost devotional fervor. This isn't merely about the thrill of the harvest or the monetary gain; it's a profound satisfaction derived from the intricate dance of life and death, the mastery of the human form, and the art of the black market. This deep-seated passion can be a powerful asset, driving them to excel, but it also presents a significant vulnerability. A truly malevolent individual could potentially weaponize this very enthusiasm against Sangris, exploiting their zeal for their gruesome work to manipulate or ensnare them.
Many people find Sangris inherently disturbing upon first meeting them, even without knowing their macabre professions. There’s an indefinable quality to their presence, a subtle disquiet that seems to cling to them like a shroud. It’s not that they're deliberately trying to hide anything, but rather a pervasive unease that radiates outward. Perhaps it's the unnerving intensity in their eyes, a gaze that seems to linger a moment too long, making you feel as though you’re being meticulously observed like an animal specimen. Or maybe it’s the way they carry themselves, a peculiar stillness that feels almost predatory, hinting at something deeply unsettling just beneath the surface. Regardless of the specific manifestation, Sangris possesses an inherent creepiness that operates on a visceral level, triggering an instinctive sense of dread in those around them, a premonition of a darkness they hardly realize they project.
When immersed in their work, Sangris often succumbs to a profound, almost hysterical state. This isn't simply focus; it's a descent into a kind of ecstatic madness, a paraphilic intensity that borders on the obsessive. This raw, unbridled fervor is specifically tied to the thrill of the hunt and the sweetness of dissection. In the throes of ensnaring their next victim or meticulously carving out an organ, they can lose themselves entirely, their movements becoming frenzied and sloppy, their eyes alight with a manic gleam. While Sangris doesn't necessarily mind this state, it is a fault that often leads to subpar work. Their intense, almost animalistic focus can become so overwhelming that it compromises their precision and judgment, leading to less-than-ideal outcomes in their craft. Furthermore, this disquieting, almost rapturous, form of hysteria is profoundly unsettling for unknowing onlookers, who are often left uncomfortable and disturbed by Sangris's demeanor.
Like any siren, Sangris has the ability to subconsiously detect a victim's deepest desires and translate it into song. However, they have a unique ability to read the memories of a victim by tasting their blood, which usually manifests when they feed. This used to bother them, but now it serves to deepen their appreciation for their kills.