Gilded Bay I can make you scared

her search for fire persisted: back home the wolves of the plateau might have noticed her absence, and wondered if she too had visited whatever avenue had claimed the plateau’s redfaced phoenix. 

impossibly, her search carried her through deadwood and quiet bosk until at last it deposited her at the base of a golden-winged strand. 

for a long time Caiaphas hung under the protective cover of shivering trees, staring out at that all too familiar yet hostile expanse. 

not since the bear had she seen the swell of water. not since her home had been sundered had she witnessed the break of whitecaps on a blue wave’s roached back. 

bit by bit something shuffled behind those tired eyes, unfurled its dusted wings and shook off the stagnant drapes of repression which had imprisoned it. 


Caiaphas had known to return to the sea might be her undoing; to be reminded of the scar that had only just healed over, fresh and still so very poignant in her mind’s eye, might have unraveled her. 

for long time her gaze traveled over those flitting waves, something deep and internal working in that sharp mind; rearranging, clicking small pieces into ostensible place.

and then the sylph moved, drawn from her reverie by the unmistakable sound of a voice over the drone of the wind and the slap of the waves. a voice which carried with astounding clarity, its’ tongue not just familiar, but known — recognized, even. 

it was then the last surviving member of the nereides’ first and gruesomely misfortunate expedition caught sight of a pale figure embraced by the rough hands of the sea; the progenitor of the voice that murmured softly over the swell. 

Caiaphas lingered on the swashline, as if some miserable ghoul summoned forth by the woman’s chanting. she stood there, sorrowful eyes cast upon her summoner while the wind picked up in a high moan around them.