Wheeling Gull Isle vanyan sòlda

for a long moment mireille did not look at caracal. and when she did, her expression was the stone of a temple giving way to the insistence of verdant and curling leaves. yet beneath that, beneath that — he might see that she was thinking, weighing his words like cool stones in the hand.
at last her shoulders relaxed; she glanced at the earth. "ti gason sòt," mireille mumbled swiftly beneath her breath. what did he know? yet her voice was lifting, somewhat, from raw salt to the shoreline of emotion, steadying. not yet warm but pulling from the ice.
the obsidian took a seat where she was, spine straight and regal as she faced toward the sea. "reyes be my bro'ter, not dat i ever met him." she wanted to move away from this deceptive cove of vulnerability onto the harder land of focusing elsewhere. "how long have you been away from home?"
val. loko. swordfish. stingray. quennell.
her eyes burned and she turned them back out over the waves.