Dragoncrest Cliffs we are still trained killers

half-drowned and hungry, the saint comes to their doorstep, looking like a begger. bonethin, tearyeyed and sunkencheeked.

she has heard the sirensong and they rejected her; spitting her back into the flotsam and jetsam of the sound.

her raspy voice calls for anyone. anyone close enough to hear it.

sea wet fur clings to her thin frame; swaying before she sits, without the energy to keep herself standing.

her fault.

her fault for not being enough for the unnamed god, nor for the sirens that haunted the seas of ankyra sound.

@Chacal @Mireille @Val