Seaside Moors magritte suit

He crosses the moors dense with its saltwater smell, sloping pockmarked hills, faded grey clouds that took on real shapes as quickly as they dissolved -- Escherian, a dream landscape that changed just by turning around and looking back again, everything all in some anonymous earth palette, autumn unfurling with a touch of oxidation.

There is something here, a sense of covert subterranean drama. A tension in the air that comes with the simple presence of strangers. He half expects heads to pop out of holes in the ground, their eyes liquid and watchful. 

The ocean is a flat, grey band across the sky, folding in on itself all croissant-like, strudel-like. He remembers the sailor he had met and his swarthy face, already weathered by the sun and having acquired an interesting, striking resemblance to wrought ironwork. His name, the color of his eyes, forgotten. Miranda marvels at his selective memory. 

His gait slows. His feet drag gently at the ground and he leaves small parentheses in sets of four on the half-grass, half-sand. 

He lingers near the border and calls over the wind.

a routing of foxes; erzulie's teeth clipped the tail of the last, coming away with a mouthful of changeling pelt. spitting it into the coldbit plants beneath her paw, the jezebel watched from her empty den as the long grasses shifted, bringing first the sound of wolftone and then the scent of a stranger.
her stalk was long-legged and curious; she drew up to a halt with her mismatched stare pinning toward the newcomer. he was not tall, but it mattered little beneath the clear strength in his figure. winter upon the horizon, and rusalka in need of hunters.
"you have foun' rusalka," she greeted, voice clear and inching toward inquisitive. what he chose to say next she awaited with an inscrutable expression, observant and softly intrigued.

You are Rusalka? He asks, noting the accent and the syntax, just strange but familiar enough to be the linguistic equivalent of skipping a step on your way down the stairs. The wind picks up in one muscleless heave. His hair flaps against his face, his collar open and fluttering, the sallow skin underneath visible through the partings. 

Her mismatched eyes are the only interference in the otherwise lemon and beige symmetry. One brown kiss-curl lies flat against her forehead before it returns back to her pale and vague hairline. She has fox fur on the edge of her mouth, and he thinks he sees it between her teeth. I'm Miranda. I'm looking for a place to stay over the winter... maybe longer. He smiles a perfect computer-generated parabola: Y equals X squared on a Cartesian grid.

"i be erzulie." the favored greeting, purred a dozen times and no less in this moment. "dis be my home." she gestured to the somnolent roil of heatherfield and anemone, dusted now underfoot with the colder snort of winter-threat, a bite hanging in the air at all hours now.
nothing to see now but the jasmine clinging stubbornly to life at the edge of rusalka, bitter and twining with ivy that crept over the hard faces of scattered boulders. and she knew intrinsically that they could not weather here, but to admit so would be weakness, and to expect this man not to see the same was a fool's errand. he could see, and he had come all the same.
spice-hued ears flicked. "what you be bringin' in barter for it, miranda?" the harlot inquired with the same appreciable directness he had given. a pirate heart in a jezebel's flesh; and she jack of the oldest trade.

He appreciates her directness, she appreciates his. He could very well play the smoke-and-mirrors game of etiquette but wasting time on paperwork or handshakes was so unpleasant to him that he often wondered why words were invented at all when they were born with a face and a body. Her name is Erzulie, not Rusalka.

I fight, he says, and on second thought adds, I fight well. Enough to make a living out of it.  The Gray Brothers didn't suffer fools. Miranda was perfectly content to slip into the clandestine machine that existed just outside of bureaucracy and law, so they were business partners made in heaven. He allows himself a small portion of nostalgia before disposing of it somewhere in a stainless steel chute. I know a bit of healing. I'm what you might call a combat medic.

Your home is lovely, by the way. This wasn't small talk; he meant it. He lays a hand over the shag carpet. Autumn rears over them and the dirt under his feet is loose as if it hasn't seen the sun in a long time. There is a quaint and anemic charm to this place and every breath traces a new contour in his mind where a memory of Rusalka is already developing.

a combat medic. rusalka and their war with drageda. erzulie fought the urge to look back toward in the direction of the now distant sea-cliffs, and instead trained her gaze upon the self-named physician. "two healers we have, but not one trained for medic and fightin' toget'er." tone thoughtful as she watched miranda appraise the moorloam with the air of a contented farmer. 
an odd scar upon his shoulder, but the harlot declined to comment. she wore her own bevy of them, and rosalyn even moreso. they bespoke an experience to buoy his claims, and erzulie for the moment was satisfied.
"i feel de same way," she purled, turning her face toward the sea-sown groundline separating rusalka from the whitesand coast and its coconut-tree swathes. "rusalka has always belonged to de ocean. perhaps you will come to find de same." 
turning on a small paw now, turning on a small hard paw to drift back beyond the borders and seeking to draw miranda with her. "you were a mercenary den?" voice warm, cutting honey through onion-sheet politeness to inform him he was seen by one once employed in violence herself.

Her lilting voice, dragging then rushing, is comforting, and mirrors the sashay of her walk. The overcast sun lights a pale triangle of thigh and her nose with a single long unbroken stroke. He thinks he has never seen someone so comfortable in their own skin except for himself. She holds herself like someone who has memorised every single biochemical reaction inside themself and knows exactly the process which starts and ends a smile (from the brain to the nerves to the muscle and back again), who can stop and start their metabolism just like that, just by force of will. Yes, I was. 

They leave behind a trail of footsteps that are already beginning to be smoothed over. The wind never stops blowing here. I worked for a pair of brothers and their family. They were as smart as the devil, those ones.

That would be about as much as he would say. Weapons didn't talk about their handlers. Weapons, in fact, didn't talk at all.

How about you?

the harlot might have liked to hear more about these brothers, but if miranda wished to tell it, she trusted it would come in time. "my wife be a pirate," she grinned with a gentle thought to rosalyn and where the woman might be at this moment. "fur'ter up de beach we had a pack, and learned to fight upon de shore."
not wistful, she supposed; something less pointed and more smoothed-over now that the years had passed and children had been born, rusalka shifted, the land transformed.
"i was a courtesan before dat," and now for the first time erzulie wondered how old the strongly-built man was, how grandmotherly and wan she must seem to young eyes as she chunnered over the past. "you will find de kelp on dat beach," gesturing, "good for wounds. de orange type seems to speed healing." affable, calm talk while mind churned and struggled for breath in a painful moment.

cameo

Perhaps not the best habit, but it was one she seemed to develop. Finding a nerve to simply walk into a conversation, the reaper often found herself hiding out behind something and peaking over to watch. Especially now with newcomers- once is something, and twice isn't too many, but it was simply odd she did it once more.

Curiosity from Grímnismál as she silently watched with a bloodied-gaze of the two. The golden woman, whome always greated visitors, and a short muscular man. Reminded her of a seal- particular an elephant seal. Definitely will remain wary over them.

A pirate wife and a kingdom that faced the sea -- he felt pedestrian in comparison, a run of the mill detective swallowed by the eldritch embrace of some coastline town plagued by past tragedy, shuddering under the weight of some vast, unknown presence. 

Courtesan?, he thinks, and it dawns on him. In truth, he's impressed with her honesty and now her resourcefulness. This is someone who has worked their fingers to the bone just to survive and to hang on desperately to the last and widest rung of Maslow's triangle. He looks to the beach. Long and unbroken strands of kelp lie contorted over the wind-beaten sand like hair.

I admit I don't have much history with the ocean. I'm from the mountains, far up north. He pauses, lips parted. French-curve gusts comb through them and break apart over the water along the silver sand, skimming its turbulent surface. The only thing they have in common is the wind, I think. And that they've claimed more lives than any wolf ever has or will.

With this pique of romanticism, he slips into a thoughtful silence. The brackish air is drying out his lips.

neither he nor wintersbane had lived alongside the bitter salt before, but both had found their way to this place. erzulie thought it intriguing and fortunate; she reserved any further speculation for another time. miranda's comment upon the mountains was moreso pointed, and erzulie found herself thinking of the time that rusalka had spent at the plateau.
"i lived near dem once," she murmured quietly. "i nevah was so clumsy anywhere as when i was upon t'ose damned rocks." a gentle chuckle at her former missteps; the harlot paused to look upon the beauty of the waving moorgrass with its caught currents of air. "at times i wonder if at one time wolves lived in de sea." a mischievious glimmer in her mismatched eyes; erzulie waved her tail and pressed on, hoping to entice miranda into more fanciful discourse.

Miranda had heard that the polar bears had twenty words for snow, that the owls had twenty words for wind, that the mice and moles had twenty words for dirt. Whether that was true, he didn't know. The townsfolk living at the foot of Mount Hubley were close-lipped (they were right to be) and all he knew about them was from the Grey Brothers, whose views were as reliable and candid as a rifle's barrel bent at thirty degrees.

He wondered what the Rusalkans had to offer. He steals a look at Erzulie's dark face, her lager-pale hair. His eyes squeeze as he laughs. 

Mhm... he spies seagulls skimming in and out of some distant mist. A family of four, their wings and tails flicked up like cursive. I'd be scared shitless. To be honest with you, I can't even stand stepping on seaweed underwater. Like it's pulling you in...

Though I guess you wouldn't mind. Maybe you'd like it more in there. In response, the water churns. He wouldn't deny it -- there was a certain call of the void that lingered between him and the sea like stale breath -- but its turbulent surface inspired more trepidation than fascination in the pit of his stomach, and he did not envy Erzulie's love for it.

he was indulgent, charming. not for nothing did erzulie observe him again, his contemplative nature and quiet voice. having not yet considered truly her decision for the coming year, each rusalkan man was quietly added to a weighplace within her mind.
the winter would bring more opportunities for miranda to prove himself, she decided. for now, she enjoyed the easy, thoughtful nature of their discourse, and her teeth shone in a smile. "dat i would," she trilled, casting a glance toward the yearling medic who trailed after them. "it not be for everyone." she wished to ask after his packland, after the life he had led and the one for which she secretly yearned, but it was not to be. "de forest, dat way," she murmured indicating the far edge of rusalka and its shadewood sentinel, "we stayed dere during de rains. no one lives in dat place. for now. i consider it part of what we have claimed."

He follows Erzulie’s wayward glance to a small grayscale girl, and he acknowledges her with a nod galvanized by his particular brand of camaraderie before turning his attention back to his tour guide. She points toward a forest that gloams just over the horizon, its splayed edges like torn paper, the fibers akimbo. 

It’s not the first time he is impressed by Rusalka’s charm. Its wallpaper has seen much, the lathe and plaster and vaulted woodwork underneath has seen more. World-weary, he thinks. Yellowed enamel. Casein flaking off at the edges. No one ever found asbestos-stuffed homes as romantic as he did. Laminated polypropylene furniture could move him to tears. 

Are there any other packs nearby? Allies, enemies, the like? Or was he in some liminal outer suburbia? Nothing but gas stations and squat condominiums for miles around, a half-conscious topology.

"sout'east of us be de firebirds. a large pack. dey are not allies, but dey are not enemies. niamh, wid a golden coat; she leads dem, an' she is de one i know best." as far as friends; erzulie rolled her shoulders and peered sidelong at miranda with an inscrutable look. "rusalka be keepin' to itself since de beginning." no masters. no allies. they lived upon the salt and would die beside it, of this she was sure.
having yet no idea of the kingslend wolves settling within the hinterlands, she had provided the sum of her knowledge. lowering her lips to sweep the dust, tasting it for the spoor of rabbit and the promise of the deer that strayed down to feed, the harlot felt herself shift toward lighter things. "hunt wid us?" and this time she did motion toward @Grímnismál, eyes shining with the notion of it.

'Was she talking to me?' Erzulie pointed to where Grímnismál was hiding, however she only lifted a paw to her chest and tilted her head so. There was also the factor she thought to be undetected, but seemed to be proven otherwise.. Unless of course the reaper was mistaken, and now it was just an embarassment.

Better to just stay in the bush.

Master of none -- see, that had a nice ring to it. He makes a mental note of the Firebirds. When did wolves get so romantic with the packs and their names? Aw, Jacobi, they're making me feel like a philistine.

If he had a god to thank, he would. As far as he was concerned Rusalka was the geometric and axiomatic core of the world where chaos spiraled around but never quite touched, a survivors' diaspora, a natural selection support group ... his gaze once again follows Erzulie's, back to the gray girl. She's hesitating. You there. Yeah, c'mon, shrugging his shoulder in a let's go gesture, he's turning away before he even finishes the sentence, sliding into his role as hunter.

can fade or keep going <3

poor young healer; erzulie was still amused to see how swiftly miranda moved not to command, but to include. while he was a man, and therefore still susceptible to the flaws of men, she had enjoyed his joining here this day. "yes, come," she invited more pointedly with a grin, before turning her face into the salt-spray air.
"dere be a herd of deer who come to graze upon de borders," she shared with a conspiratorial wink between the pair of hunters. erzulie supposed they would be there now; with a roll of her shoulders she began to set off, turning back to miranda with a curious look should he choose to impart more of his interesting words.

"oh, ok!" The reaper was not used to being invited, like Rudolph often shunned from the reindeer games and was not used to such invitations. With a rather meek smile she brushed herself out of the bush, and bounded perhaps too excitingly after the two. Though in reality, Grímnismál was a shitty hunter.