Wheeling Gull Isle but sleep won't set me free

Her lips rounded slightly, gently. Iset. . . A goddess, she assumed, of—poppies? Or, at least, of those who partook in poppies, like herself and Mou. Any flirtation on his end was lost in her fascination with the tale; she drew a little closer, interested and wholly unaware that she could be playing with fire by doing so.

His words, his voice, were much like the seeds. She felt suddenly quite heavy, felt the familiar weight settle around her. The breeze came slower.

Jaes, Maegi responded. Her own tone was pitched low; one might have to strain to hear it above the wind and nearby crash of waves. The god of the damned. The protector of the young, the weak, the deformed. At the last word, she smiled, an expression wry and rueful. Of course, it went without saying that she was a devotee.

But Iset, too. . .she had given her entire self to Jaes, but she was willing to learn more about the poppy-goddess as well. Who do you serve? she asked, raising her brows.