Sea Lion Shores and a voice cut from steel

a shadow approaches her though the sound of his footfalls are swallowed by the shifting sands and drown in the crash of the frothy waves, drudging up all manners of jetsam and flotsam from the depths of the sea. a wrinkle of praimfaya's nose, a small hiss of pain as the action pulls at the shallow wounds left there as she studies the man with a sweep of frostbound gaze. she does not recognize him as immediately as he does her — for she was most assuredly high for most of that meeting. until he speaks. ripa! she greets him with gusto, as if she were greeting a life-long friend instead of a stranger she came across effervescent mushrooms with.

only to let out a low whine of pain lacing with unbridled regret. the motion of speech in her throat, the vowels and constants tearing from her throat with the ease that she was accustomed pulled at the tended and healing but still fresh wounds.

ears flutter back and then flick as if she were swatting away a bothersome fly; she tries. to swat away the pain as if it were that simple. what doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all.

to be honest, i thought i'd made you up. praimfaya admits with a sheepish roll of left, scarred shoulder and a cloying grin.