Seaside Moors Storms cause our flowers to bloom

Miranda’s friendliness was no veneer -- he’d always figured that everyone would die at some point, fading off into vast and cold oblivion, so why the hell would he spend the time being an asshole?

It was the only doctrine he would ever follow. Though not unique, he was proud that it was handmade.

Were you drawn to the water, then, or was the water drawn to you? He shoots back, half-joking and half-rhetorical. The Rusalkans so far had proved to be wonderful at rapport and he often felt as if he had lived here and known the people here all his life, or maybe in a past life, whether it was due to their West Teekonian charms or their home which was equal parts balmy and foreboding.

The water is lukewarm and briny but he suppresses a shiver as it touches his legs, then his chest, then his neck. A wave laps at his face and he narrowly dodges the incoming mouthful of salt. It doesn’t want for him to stay on his feet -- he’s on tippy toes, swaying back and forth, nowhere near as comfortable as Rosalyn -- but he laughs, anyway.