Stavanger Bay look in your glass, and there appears a face

bleh phone post

The girl’s chime of far soon reaches winter-thin ears — Far from home, perhaps? It is not her place to enquire ... at least, not when the druid and seachild have just met. But then a lilt is sent from the roseling, who wades to shore with her own wondering as to the silver’s name; who only proffers an answer when the she had been approached more nearer to.  “I am Aurëwen,”  she wisped, taking her time to settle upon a bony bum. Her mourner, curiously peering from about her crude hip; presenting him to the seachild with,  “and this is my dæmon, Aegelius,”  whoso then introduced himself with a muted coo.

With a rare glint of pearl from between her shorn lips, the herbalist gave, also, a tentative alternative — “Aurë, and my ... Egg, if you would prefer.”  A lull, filled by the sonority of sun’s press upon sea, before,  “He is keen to unearth shells from ze land. As for myself ... well,”  dimpling, vulpine, eyes crescenting to half-moons,  “I shan’t ever tell. ... Pray, would you like to accompany us? There is more within ze dunes than beneath ze tides, as far as I have heard tell.”