Blackwater Islands soldado

belen was slowly becoming accustomed to the islands. it was still odd to be so far off the mainland. the great expanse of water tempted her eyes every day and she spent a good deal of time staring off into the sea. so far she had not been summoned for her trade. but belen knew that this place was not akashingo, and so she began to walk smoothly beside the waves, hips gently swaying as she sought to catch a curious eye.

though the sea was different than the woodland ingram had been born to, the dreadfather felt no foreignness in it. it reminds them of the void; always churning and full of secrets hiding within its abyss. but as the days pass, it is harder to separate the two, harder to distinguish whose memory was who's. it no longer mattered. they were one and these islands? the sea? it is home. it is home because their nightwife has claimed it as so.

the acolyte upon the beach draws the dreadfather's seaglass gaze. the earthen pelaged woman is small, waif-like.

acolyte. the dreadfather greets with a low chuff; their ...disappointment in ingram's lack of socialization displaying in their attempt to learn for themselves and not rely solely upon their nightwife's word.

the figure was grey and black and tall and scarred with a pair of eyes that reminded belen of the waters lapping in the forested places of the island. he was very handsome, and she found herself smiling with invitation at him. but it faltered. belen did not know if this man was forbidden to her. and so she only dipped her head smoothly. "i am pleased to learn from the listener."

they are greeted with a dip of the acolyte's head and words of being pleased to learn from the listener. the dreadfather draws in a soft breath; a small noise of contentment at her words lingering in their throat. a willingness to learn would serve her well in blackwater. good. the amount of acolytes that seem content to stay there: lingering in the shadows does not necessarily sit well with the dreadfather.

perhaps familiarizing themselves with the acolytes might help to determine why this was.

willingness to learn our way and that of the unnamed god's will carry you far. but their nightwife had a way of sussing out who to promote and who not to and presently as the keeper, the dreadfather was in no position to assist.

still, they would offer their nightwife their thoughts, wanted or otherwise.

he was more handsome now that he spoke. his voice was the timbre of a falling tree. belen found it wonderfully masculine and so different from the cunning and silken ways that her pharaoh employed himself. but she would heed the listener. she was here as an emissary from akashingo, so she believed. and she must act that way. "she has given me permission to practice offering the pleasures i learned at the palace. pleasure-magick, she said." belen gave him a winning smile.

surely, their nightwife has spoken to him — or at the least ingram — of this woman but the dreadfather sees blackwater and those who rallied to his wife with new eyes and thus is not interested in ingram's take.

they make their own assumptions; without the coloring of the boy they'd once been's bias.

pleasure magick, the dreadfather rumbles in quiet contemplation. this particular magick is not unknown to them: it was once of mephala's own specialties, after all. tongues loosened within the basking glow of after pleasure. they preferred the magick of shadow and fear — the plea of information in stead of death ...but death always followed.

the voidwalker is not known for their mercy.

very useful magick, if memory serves.

his paws were large. she looked at her own as they walked. next to him she was hardly anything. the man was wild in a way she had never seen in akashingo. belen was smitten but did not want to invite the rage of her tutor. "i do not have such memories," she said sweetly. "maybe you can teach me something about it?" she dared, though she looked off toward the darkened sea as she said this.

a twitch of the dreadfather's lips is given; a small wily upturn that might've been considered a smile — though such things were reserved for their nightwife. this was calculating; sly. her words were sweet; honeyed ...perhaps even meant to be flattering, if the voidwalker had any intention to consider them as such.

pleasure magick is not my area of expertise. the dreadfather admits; a small chuckle like the rumble of thunder lingering in their chest, up their throat. though they would admit it was a useful talent; seduction was not their area of expertise.

that was not what they had ever been prayed to for. only death and sacrifice and victory.

he laughed. belen followed it up with a sugary giggle of her own. "what is your area of expertise?" she was looking to learn today, even if it could not be under her terms in his arms. he was taken, and there was another man here who belonged to yet another woman. belen fit nowhere and yet she must make herself useful and learn these things. "how many kinds of magick are there?" she inquired with a dart of her glassblue eyes.

though her honeyed giggle does not go unheard by the dreadfather, they do not capitalize upon it. she has already spoken that their nightwife has singled her out for deploying the ways of pleasure magick — the dreadfather assumes that it has less to do with them an more to do with her nature.

perhaps one day i will tell you. but she is not yet a druid and the dreadfather keeps to their nightwife's wishes: the acolytes know only what the listener allows them. it is not their place to divulge anyone's secrets; lest of all their own.

many, rumbles the dreadfather. star magick and blood magick. earth magick and pleasure magick. death and poison magicks. many and more that i cannot possibly name them all.

he was as easily opened as a rusted chest. she could not flirt with him. she could not seduce him. belen was not sure either of those things were achievable with this one, even if she had been given permission. she felt restricted and resentful all of a sudden. she dropped her glassblue gaze to the sand between her paws. "what is star magick?" the girl murmured, not truly caring.

this felt like a good spot for archival <3

in a slow blink of their icy, seaglass eyes her honeyed, cloying tone was gone. the dreadfather picks up on the shift with a lift of their chin, a flare of their nostrils. they do not much care to wind back and see where her purls and their amusement ended: but it has.

she asks but they assume, by the change in the charge of the air that her interest has waned. and they have nothing left to speak.

for another day, they announce coolly. or not. this was spoken to communicate — as if their cool dismissal was not enough — that the change has not gone unnoticed by them.

they move to leave, but not before imparting unasked for wisdom: if you seek to rise in blackwater, if you wish to become more: hone your craft. collect secrets...of those outside our borders.