erzulie often looked to the sea, for by now surely its salt must be dulled with the constant rain. she did not know by what measure the land had fallen in such esteem, but would pluck up her brood again if they must.
out upon another excursion, she passed along the borders, refreshing the markers briefly. a futile mission, what with the constant wet, but the harlot was nothing if not ambitious. the moorlands must hold the scent of rusalka until the rains had gone, arrogant a struggle or not.
her spice-hued ears cupped forward with interest at the sound of a young howl along their gate, and erzulie took up the ranging trot of her kind to find two on the border: one a yearling cloaked in dark silver with pretty crimson accents, the other an older man, flyaway blonde and autumn. 
erzulie halted some feet away, the green-gold mismatching of her gaze roving briefly over them both before she spoke. "dis be rusalka. what you be wantin'?" tone not unfriendly, simply observant, watchful.

They sat, huddled in the fog like tourists enduring the wait times of public transportation, and his impatience snarled in his hands like a cramp, only instead of pain it was an unbearable need to move, to flex, to punch, anything that didn't resemble squatting at a night bus station waiting for the next sardine tin of tired workers to roll by.

Chin up, kid, he mimed picking off lint from his coat. This just might be it.

He gestured to the woman approaching them. She faded in and out of the mist, then in and out of the curving hills. Pretty, he thought. Could probably kick both of our asses.

Heya. I'm Nine, he's Jojo. We're lookin for the pack round here. Ah-- a home, maybe. He passed a hand over his hair, then the stubble on his cheek, head tilted forwards (a common courtesy, Kincaid would call it, and Nine would make fun of how he said courtesy almost like kurt-see).

Aw, come on off it Kin. Leave me an' my poor brain be.