Sequoia Coast Like whirlpools

The Neophyte misunderstood the question or else chose to answer differently than the Adept had expected, but that was fine by her. Psamathe spoke formally all the time, and was almost always ambiguous in her questions. There was no such thing as a direct inquiry or statement for the scryer, who often imagined herself an intellectual. That was what made her a Sea Nymph, after all.

As Caiaphas explained her recent activity, Psamathe kept an appraising eye on her. It was impossible to tell from first impressions where the black-headed female's strengths might lie, but the Adept nevertheless attempted to predict where the Neophyte might find herself. Something deep and primal told her it wouldn't be the school of the Sea Nymphs... Although she had definitely been wrong before, and much remained to be seen.

The other's impatience came through her words, teasing a light smile onto Psamathe's lips. Despite the deference shown to her, the scryer displayed no outward dominance herself. That was exclusively for the consorts and outsiders. “The matriarch has much on her mind. Only the Mothers can assure this claim, and Aktaiê must pray extensively for Their final blessing.” A twinkle entered her eye at the thought of the strand being stolen, and with a knowing lift to her smile, she tilted her snout down and crooned, “the Mothers will never allow another soul to set their claim upon this land. This is known.”

“But we must do our part as Their daughters,” she concluded, gesturing for the other to follow her toward their chosen territory's flanking cliffs with a flick of her muzzle, “and so we must form a concrete perimeter ourselves. Have you been marking, νεόφυτος?”