Seaside Moors redline

erzulie often looked to the sea, for by now surely its salt must be dulled with the constant rain. she did not know by what measure the land had fallen in such esteem, but would pluck up her brood again if they must.
out upon another excursion, she passed along the borders, refreshing the markers briefly. a futile mission, what with the constant wet, but the harlot was nothing if not ambitious. the moorlands must hold the scent of rusalka until the rains had gone, arrogant a struggle or not.
her spice-hued ears cupped forward with interest at the sound of a young howl along their gate, and erzulie took up the ranging trot of her kind to find two on the border: one a yearling cloaked in dark silver with pretty crimson accents, the other an older man, flyaway blonde and autumn. 
erzulie halted some feet away, the green-gold mismatching of her gaze roving briefly over them both before she spoke. "dis be rusalka. what you be wantin'?" tone not unfriendly, simply observant, watchful.