Blackwater Islands is it just you and me in the wreckage of the world?

The question came seemingly from nowhere. Lazuline’s head shot up. The hairs on her crown were untamed as though she’d just woken from a deep rest. She ripped her paws out from under her sickly kin. Her pads and claws are coated in a deep green paste.

She was, quite simply, a mess. To be gawked at in this state was nothing short then humiliating.

She answered with a tongue as sharp as a blade. Yes. Everything is peachy. Lazuline’s eyes locked with the smokey boy’s for no more than two seconds before abruptly yanking her head back down towards her sister. She needlessly picked at her fur.

A tense silence grew around them, cut by her words. Don’t call me acolyte. I’m not an acolyte.