Stavanger Bay Smoking Embers

iaghe only glanced between the two as they spoke, attentive and silent as she'd ever been. 

her mouth remembered the shape of words. 

it was their language that perplexed her so. 

iaghe's words were born by a different sea than the one that lapped in the distance. 

there was a fuzzy memory that drifted like a leaf caught on a wind high above her head. father. atta. a man the color of sand whose voice had rumbled in her ear with tales of places so far, they had seemed fictional. words -- thick and blunt, so that they'd broke into laughter when she and lindalë tried to replicate them in their musical tones.

iaghe assumed he was gone. and so too was his language.

fleurette's discomfort snapped her from the internal musing, brow furrowing vaguely as her head tilted. as far as she knew, the fever wasn't something to be ashamed of.

a glance to the sky gave her an indication of what they spoke of.

the islander looked to andr -- a question in her eyes.