Cerulean Cape take me to your waters, lay me on your shore

Thuringwethil stops when the other calls out for her. She slowly turns back around to see her having taken a step or two out of the water and closer in her direction. One brow lifts but she does not advance in return as the other calls for a friend. A little information is hardly worth extending any further invitations, especially after the first has been denied, but she brushes it off anyway. “Thuringwethil, from the northern shores,” she says, pursing her lips tight afterward as she waits for another chance to leave.