The Sentinels grace in your heart, flowers in your hair.

Cerulean. She lets the name go in a sigh, drawing out the stressed syllable in something almost akin to a whistle, the rest carried away on the evening breeze. The Seductress infinitesimally narrows her eyes, not in any negative emotion but, rather, illustration. She is staring at the eyes, the cerulean eyes, which — Fitting, Ereshkigal murmurs, and her smile grows ever-broader.

The sylph dips her chin in a nod, regarding Cerulean from beneath long, dusky lashes. We are all sisters, says the priestess, the wanderer-by-trade, the woman at her core. All who live and breathe and have been blessed with a womb by The One. Why would anyone think otherwise? To be ignorant of the connection between yourself and those around you leads to crushing solitude —

The One is in us all, even that which does not live and breathe, she explains, turning to look at the dark ripple of waves, extending on and on and on beyond the shoreline. In the water, the earth, the moon, the stars. . .and you, my sweet sister. Ereshkigal shifts, turning nearly perpendicular to the young lady, neck a graceful arch as she draws her tongue along the girl's forehead in a soothing, maternal manner, whispering, to hammer the point home, And you.