Seaside Moors Maybe I should get to church on Sunday...

she found herself studying stryx as the woman spoke her short words, examined her own quarry. the healer was not as young as erzulie had previously thought — more flush with youth than herself, but matured in a ways that the harlot sensed might be intriguing.
"i do not know if she would call me dat," the beta-wolf demurred, stepping forward. beneath her paws the rocks were warm, and the nearby lap of water called to her siren's heart. so down she stepped, pacing into the licking surf, wading silently until the salt embraced her mid-thigh.
"i nevah was told how you foun' raleska," erzulie purled after a moment, shifting her leaf-green, half-gold stare to stryx and her pretty, closed features. would she surrender her patient? or perhaps might tell the harlot to fuck off. hint of a smile tugged at her lips.