Blackwater Islands the man with the umbrella

the sea, like the void, brings them all manner of unusual things.

as the velveteen colors of night expand greedily, swallowing the last defiant colors of the smoldering day the dreadfather walks their usual patrol.

the shores are empty with the life of the druids, their shadowchildren and their nightwife: but the dreadfather remains even as all others drifted off. this is where she had chosen to lay her roots and they believe with the fierce solidity of a thousand lifetimes it was where she would return.

where, eventually, all the druids would return.

they pause, having spent most of the patrol nosing through the frothing waves and lingering seafoam, the moon painting a shape in the sands as canine in nature. cautiously, the dreadfather approaches with a low chuff noting that the stranger is ( at the very least ) alive, having caught the motions of them pushing themselves upright.