Wheeling Gull Isle one of my turns

@Reigi, backdated like last night

 

"Day after day, love turns grey
Like the skin of a dying man.
And night after night, we pretend it's all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun any more."

Maegi enjoyed the way the moonlight bounced off the water. The ocean was a shimmering, moving mass, dark and light all at once, so calm far away but cresting and crashing upon the beach with a kind of muted fury. For one who'd never seen the sea before a few days ago, it was a novel view.

The girl found some enjoyment, too, in sitting on the edge of the water, letting the waves tickle at her toes. Occasionally bits of sea-greenery would float by, and she'd catch them on her good forepaw, staring in mild interest for a while before letting them go with the next recession. The water, the waves, the night breeze, all of this served to anchor her to the world: she had nothing else left to do so.

"Oh, Mephala," she intoned, remembering the prayer Kove had taught her long ago--well, long ago to a girl--her voice small against the vastness of the ocean. "Mighty weaver of our destiny, receive our prayer. Have mercy on us, speak to us in our dreams—because we are your unworthy servants.”

It's a call to her, Kove had said. Would she come? She had not heard the dizzying voices of the daedra since Nikan had done her harm. Maegi felt as if they had abandoned her, scorned her for not returning to the forest after all of the various misdeeds she'd committed in her lifetime. Not following her brothers. Leaving with the speechless woman. Finding herself here, of all places.

Her young life had not been good. Absent mother, illicit father. A world that considered her a blight. War, death, turmoil. Loss and pain. Confusion. The one thing she'd clung to, above it all, was her legacy. The Melonii way. The gods of her grandmother and generations before her. And the dark woods, her home. She knew every twist, every turn; every voice from the trees and in the tunnels was familiar.

But here on the beach, there was none of that. No one on the island knew she was a Melonii--who among them knew even of the Meloniis? There were no dark woods, and the voices of the daedra had ceased to call to her, even in her dreams. She was alone.

And in the dreadful novel that was her young life, this comprised the worst chapter thus far.

"And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum."