Seaside Moors magritte suit

Miranda had heard that the polar bears had twenty words for snow, that the owls had twenty words for wind, that the mice and moles had twenty words for dirt. Whether that was true, he didn't know. The townsfolk living at the foot of Mount Hubley were close-lipped (they were right to be) and all he knew about them was from the Grey Brothers, whose views were as reliable and candid as a rifle's barrel bent at thirty degrees.

He wondered what the Rusalkans had to offer. He steals a look at Erzulie's dark face, her lager-pale hair. His eyes squeeze as he laughs. 

Mhm... he spies seagulls skimming in and out of some distant mist. A family of four, their wings and tails flicked up like cursive. I'd be scared shitless. To be honest with you, I can't even stand stepping on seaweed underwater. Like it's pulling you in...

Though I guess you wouldn't mind. Maybe you'd like it more in there. In response, the water churns. He wouldn't deny it -- there was a certain call of the void that lingered between him and the sea like stale breath -- but its turbulent surface inspired more trepidation than fascination in the pit of his stomach, and he did not envy Erzulie's love for it.