Seaside Moors crow feathers and obsidian

a great man on the borders. rusalka had returned to the moors. for now, she supposed, for in her heart she knew how tempestuous sea-winters could be. erzulie trotted across the rolling carpet of browning heather, frost threatening more aggressively with each passing week.
the harlot paused some feet away from the striking creature. he was iron and the cut of mountains; his power brought her to mind of disappeared rosencrantz, whom she missed in her bittered heart. erzulie made no word as she took stock of him, openly committing each detail to memory before she shifted to one curved hip and glanced at silent grímnismál. 
"dis be rusalka," the woman intoned, turning her attention back to their guest, "and i be erzulie." the two-toned gaze was watchful, greengold appraising him to his very breath.