Ankyra Sound our time is short, the horsemen ride

stirrings in the earth.
a flock of seabirds lifted from where they had been feeding in the salted shallows, and their abrupt departure lifted erzulie's head from where she stood ankle-deep, fishing for clams. sharp eyes surveyed the horizon; there was no jut of shark's fin nor roil of orca that would suggest danger to the birds. and yet they wheeled in the sky, screaming an alarm.
the waves too rippled oddly onto shore, their eddies chaotic. erzulie stared at the lap of foam upon the sand, a sense of unsurety rising in her, and backed from the sea with ears falling against her skull.
her children; she must collect them, and headed with a gait still stiff from her wounds toward the grotto, calling for @Reyes and @Scarab and @Clementine as she went. rosalyn was gone, their family sundered, and now  ...
what woke in the waters outside rusalka?

the girl is not far. she lies draped over her favoured sunning rock when the birds take flight, and she's jolted from her reverie by the dull roar of their wings, their cries. clem blinks up at them as they circle frantically in the sky, brow furrowed. her gaze moves too to the sea, which is empty and appears the same as it had been moments ago, save for that belly-deep feeling that something was off.

when her mother calls, she is quick in coming, and falls into step beside her with a worried, "mama?" chestnut eyes try to meet her mother's gaze, and worry takes root.

"clementine, where are your ... the others?" erzulie murmured breathlessly. her daughter was close; that was all to truly matter. and the others — oh! where had rosalyn gone? where could she be now amid the churning of the earth? for clementine's sake, the harlot steeled herself and offered a gentle smile. 
"we be goin' on a little trip, outside rusalka," she purled, beginning to double back along her tracks in search of her other wayward children. clementine had only just returned; erzulie would not lose her again.

"I don' know" came her answer, apologetic. she's remained fairly isolated in her days since returning. despite her desperate longing for her family, upon her return the familiar isolation proved a heavy habit to kick. her mother's easy confidence is a balm against her unease, though as she slips into step besides Erzulie, she asks, "what's wrong with the sea?" she believed it must be the cause of the rumbling underfoot; the earth appeared the look the same, only the sea looked markedly different. she absorbed the information that they were leaving easily; instinct told her that the what felt wrong, was unsafe.

it drew her gaze; for a long moment, erzulie did not answer. "it seems angry," she murmured, echoing her own childish fear. but perhaps it was not so childish; perhaps she was correct and they had inspired the brine's wrath in someway. "rusalka is not safe now, clementine," the harlot murmured, lowering her cinnamon muzzle to brush her daughter's ears. 
and she ached! oh her bones thrummed with the loss of ironsea, the attack upon drageda. rosalyn had left a great hurt within erzulie, and now she was alone. 
jaw clenched; she refused to cry in front of the little ones for whom she must now be doubly strong.

her tongue swipes over her lips as her mother speaks, confused. why would the sea turn against them now, and why only when she'd worked so hard to find her way back. it is her mother's decree that rusalka is no longer safe that has her glance up, erzulie's touch a reassurance but not enough to quell the quick beat of her heart. "but it's home." she murmurs, unuttered questions behind the statement, worry and fear. surely their home must be safe, surely it must withstand? but in her heart, she knew her mother to be right. "when do we have to go?" she asks meekly, and then, "what if mama comes back and we're gone?" 

"soon. very soon," erzulie breathed. "i do not want to go either, mon coeur," the cinnamon-tipped jezebel admitted with a rueful expression. out there lingered her daughter, her wife, amid the crash and burn and crack of a world in upheaval. that they were alive was a lie she must simply tell over and over, even as the hope in it began to escape her.
"ta mère est courageuse. elle nous trouvera," came her resigned purl. 
for clementine, for all her children, she must keep believing that what she spoke was certain.