The Sentinels enfants jouant a la balle

@Emaleth

Finally, he ventured closer to the sea. It was a magnificent thing. Such force, such power, such color, never just one and never for long; there were thick blacks, intense teals, vibrant blues and then the whites were never pure white. Renoir stood along an oceanside ridge and stared down at the sea, in awe of it, even though there were insectoid carcasses washing ashore. They tumbled with the sand and lodged between stones, many having been pummeled to nothing against them, and there were piles of them being driven up the sand bar. The yellow-green of their bodies was putrescent, and in Renoir's eyes, destroyed an otherwise idyllic scene.

Emaleth felt the ocean was as much a part of her as the trees of Donnelaith, but she had feared its cold depths and tended to keep a healthy distance. But now, with the damage wrought upon the trees she so loved, the sea was the only thing familiar. Older, too, her fear had begun to dissipate— she knew to keep to the shallows, knew what conditions made a swim safe and what made one fatal. She walked along the shore, picking her way through mounds of the plague, a hollowness in her heart. What was done could not be undone, and her lack of punishment was worse than if she had received one; so little Emaleth punished herself with a self-imposed isolation, with an internal dialogue that she hoped would prevent her from making mistakes in the future.

He breathed a heavy sigh as he watched a clump of locusts; they were piled against a series of stones, buffered by the sea water, and there was a strange milky foam around them. It was like baring witness to a witch's brew, and Renoir could not help but be unnerved by it. He crept closer though, curious, and bent his head to sniff along the rock's nearer surfaces as if they would lend him some clues. When he raised his head again, he saw a dark figure exploring the shallow patches and ponds left by the waves, just up the beach. The figure was darker than Lasher. The pallet used for their body being colder - or perhaps it was the midday light upon the sea which cast everything in a morose blue tint? Either way, he knew it was not the alpha, and he redirected his curiosity. As Renoir sauntered closer, he saw that the figure did not grow in size as he neared it; there was a tapering to their body, a largeness to some parts, and a familiarity. He did not know this was the kindred sister of Dierdre, whom he was so enamored by, but he felt a thrill beneath his breast all the same - and called to her with a soft bark upon the briney wind.

She paused in her brooding walk as an older female sauntered towards her, lifting her head slightly to gain a better view of the pale figure and decode the scent carried on the sea breeze. Emaleth's ears grew hot as she realized her mistake— she was glad to have resolved it before she made the mistake of greeting him. He smelled of Donnelaith, though she had not seen him before, and that was enough. She spent much of her time alone or in small company; reserved now more than ever after her disastrous attempt at spell-casting.

Wind whipped at her fur, and she watched him draw nearer with her moody, mismatched eyes. Emaleth said nothing, for he was encroaching upon her and not the other way around.

Alo, he greeted when he was closer, and dipped his head in a nod to show his respect for her; as a child of Lasher she held great sway in his mind, and as Deirdre's sister, he felt she was as powerful as any adult. Renoir knew nothing about magic or the beliefs of the woodland wolves despite having lived with them for so long. Aside from overhearing bits of Lasher's conversation with the pale woman days ago, he knew nothing of it. But he was aware of how far removed this dark girl had become since the locusts had visited them, and he wondered why.

Seeing as it was improper of him to ask, it would be better to simply enjoy her company. Yet she did not seem thrilled to see him, this strange golden boy, wandering the beach. Ou se pitit fi Lasher a repons lan se, wi? Ou gade anpil tankou l'men bèl, tankou sè ou yo.

Ah, but he was being quite strange. He had intended to mention the beautiful day! The chorus of the surf! The strangeness of the empty sky, void of birds, perhaps only because they were busy harvesting the carcasses of the many bugs being battered upon the rocks. Instead he sounded so off in his own ears. Mwen eskize, I do not mean to deranje ou — he dipped his head again, readying his body for departure just in case his blurted compliments were taken poorly.

Both ears and eyes perked at the rhythmic language he spoke. It was one that Emaleth had learned alongside Deirdre, though she still knew it as a fancier way of speaking rather than something few— especially in the Wilds— could understand. She spoke it almost as easily as she did the common and ancient tongues, though not with the rapid eloquence of the male before her, and she struggled to comprehend it as quickly as he spoke. Still, she gathered the underlying theme, and for a moment more she only stood awkwardly. He did not compliment her in the same way that her family did; or he did, but it felt different, and young Emaleth could not quite grasp the meaning behind that distinction.

"Mwen se yon pitit fi Lasher," she repeated in agreement. "Kiyes ou ye?" Her cadence was well-rehearsed but yet unnatural.