The Sentinels the salty seas behind the eyes

me me me me 

Donovan had come back into her life and somehow the winter’s caterwauling had faded. This was no coincidence, Indie had been certain. Though the whiteout snowfall had only subsided for a day or so, Indie found no reason to not believe that it was a sign of brighter times. Suddenly, the world held so much magic. So many possibilities! Indie fled the thick forests where she sheltered from the storm and returned to the burned remains upon that cliff. The entire spectral scene drew her back time and time again. Everything this forest had ever been and every will be lay in those ashes. This was it; this was everything. Indie found that it gave her strength. 

There was a siren among the timbers. The woman was easy to spot with her pale coat, starkly standing out against the dark, mucky snow. It was Akantha: a woman she had spoken to and seen, but rarely talked to. Indie had recognized her as one of the most devout of the sirens and Indie had been her silent watchmen [much in the same manner as she had observed and studied Cathenna]. Akantha seemed forlorn over something in the snow and as Indie strode forward, she saw it was one of their man-slaves. Dead.

“Weak.” Indie stated tersely, as if she had been brought up a natural Nereides siren and harbored their same loathing of men. The veiled woman tried to mirror and adopt their ways an mannerisms, but there was always some small piece missing. Perhaps it had been the newness of their culture to the shewolf, or perhaps it had been their privy conversations in the guarded, foreign language — but no matter how much she lurked in the background [watching, observing [i]adapting] this particular facade never felt as authentic as her many other colorful masks. But the sirens wowed her with their novel, remarkable customs. It was like a show she had never seen before! How could she possibly look away?