Seaside Moors crow feathers and obsidian

erzulie had expected talk of battleship and fighting from this man. he wore it, after all, a sword-rugged mien that called to rocky wars fought in cold earth. 
it was his talk of fatherhood that interested erzulie. had he scented the growing rusalkan pups in his trajectory toward their land — or had he suggested it for the sake of her femininity? cunning, if so. bemused by the idea, erzulie considered whether or not he should be tested. but she had offered that to no others. those who were loyalists would remain; those who were not would remove themselves.
"do you aspire to fat'erhood in de comin' year?" the harlot murmured with an arch of her cinnamon-masque brow; a wicked pallor of a smile crossing her features as she sought to draw something warmer to the planes of his impassive face.