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

for a series of moments erzulie was content to move in silence along the water's edge, listening to stryx speak with a sudden profusion of words blossoming in her throat. she herself was both healer and mother, but it would have been impolite to suggest such a thing. the harlot knew the breadth that healing demanded, and that was why she had only applied herself to it in a rudimentary way, to begin.
but the other's description, cut like slashes of ink along the inside of a tome's cover. did stryx mean it for herself, or another? a non-commital sound thrummed in her throat. "a bitter heart would not have felt for an ailing girl," she mused lightly, turning her mismatched gaze again upon stryx. "an' crones are not cold, beautiful women who appear beside de sea to bring a new mot'er home."
witch, perhaps.
a challenge on her tongue.