Seaside Moors who this time am I to persuade

In Erzulie's wake there was the indelible scent of anxiety, sour and prickling at his nose. He walks through the moors which are steel gray and just as non-Euclidian as they had been when he first came here. They roll like waves through slow, incredibly viscous fluid. 

The wind brings with it the smell of distant rainclouds, a dampness in the air he had grown accustomed to. Like hospital gauze, the fog settles over him. Erzulie comes into view. A slim and golden Amazon in Rusalka's watery embrace.

Looking for something? He supplies in hushed tones. It was as though he were walking through a church during a service, something sacred and careful in these vaulted halls, the pulpit looking always at the sea. The altar fathoms apart from the shore.