Iktome Plains auxesia

the call of the sea was too hard to ignore. as beautiful as this land was, melinoë could not ignore the homesick feeling that grew and grew, and she knew she needed to catch a glimpse of the ocean at the very least.
it was easy to backtrack to the coastline. she could scour the sand for familiar offerings, investigating clusters of weeds and shells as she went.
eventually the earth became soft. she watched a heron from afar, as it soared in its prehistoric way, and when it landed farther along the plain she was intrigued enough to give chase to it. this little game would not last long - leaving melinoë alone again.

The ocean waters beyond the plains were a lullaby sung by an angry Mother Rain.

Fear was too strong a word for what brewed within his narrow chest. Caution, perhaps, fitted him a touch better in how he skirted just out of reach from waves. From here he could see for miles beyond himself both inland and out towards where the waters churned — as if they might reach for him by force.

He was thankful for the bronze statue of distraction. Sunlight on sands, athletic as if she didn't fear the waters like he did. He could have convinced himself she was a mirage of his loneliness and that if he watched for long enough she would return to the sandy earth.

Out here in the open there would be no place to hide and watch, to wait and see. He was on display as much as her, for better or for worse.

melinoë was taken by the oddity that was the soil, here. it was dark and wet, from dirt to sand to the grass that found its way between. her steps left an obvious trail not obfuscated by wind in the familiar way of the sandy beaches on her island home.
there were signs of travel - animal trails through the grass, some scattered tendrils of hair from a mule deer perhaps; enough signs to suggest the mobility of life in the area.
she caught the scent of wolf and stopped quickly. lifting her head from the hunter's prowl, the woman tried to orient herself and in the process she spotted a silhouette.
this was one of the few mainlanders she had encountered - a rare sight indeed, and a thrilling prospect.
from a distance she spoke in the animal way, calling to them with a soft bark of invitation.

Invitations warmed him with beads of guilt.

Somehow it felt like a type of sin to dally. He had not seen his siblings in how long? How much of that time had he spent in a roaming state like a restless sentinel? Maybe the issue was that he was no sentinel, hardly much of a scout in and of itself. Hardly much of anything.

Here was a distraction, temptation, vice. One that called him first before he had called it.

On long thing legs, he danced closer. Weaved through dry long grasses that brushed against his own flaxen underside. A break from himself would be good, no matter if this was a kind face or a snake in disguise. It would have been polite to speak while he neared her —

If only his manners had not roamed off with him, it seemed.

they looked like a buttered piece of popcorn; a faint sunset streaking the snow of his figure. initially melinoë thought it was only the yellow of the grass somehow illuminating him, but no; he got close enough for her to study him.
a handsome, sad face.
Είναι όλοι οι άνδρες της ηπειρωτικής χώρας τόσο γοητευτικοί? a voice softer than what might be expected; flower petals falling.
the man could not be called svelte but there was a youth and a power to him, one which he had not taken notice of himself, she thought.
I am Melinoë. a slight bow of her head, as she rounds upon him. observing, appraising.

Had it been so long that he no longer recalled words? Her voice was soft, not the strength of the bronze statue he had thought her to be. It was a gentle thing, her vocal chords more akin to the strings of a harp. He might have lulled himself to sleep between her and the sea if he had not realized he understood her second set of words.

He should have felt worried — stranger to stranger — for the way she examined him.

He was too tired for an extra set of concern over things in his life.

Athens, A hollowed out kind of voice. One that might have sounded whimsical if not for the exhaustion that clung to him like a film. One that said there might have been something there before, that it could return one day too.

Melinoë, where are you headed?

It would not be fair to ask her where she was from if it was not a question he wanted to answer himself.

the man did not react to the truespeech, which was of no surprise really; her greeting was clear enough despite her accent and the man was unbothered.
what had been said of mainlanders except that they were different? her galavant was the perfect time to learn these differences.

she smiles.
i have no destination. what of you? is this home?

she was not yet wise to the scents of the mainland, nor what might constitute a claim scent, among the many new things she now experienced.

flowing around him again, she draws close and quietly laughs, soft and twinkling.

She was free.

That, in and of itself, brought a pull from him to her. Interested in her intrigue, her mystique. A dangerous kind of thing to distract himself with.

No, The answer was not snapped but it came quicker than he would have liked. It was not spoken with an air of confidence, either. For a moment he shined with his uncertainty.

Even if he could feel it be washed away by such a light laugh that she wrung free from herself. Something in it worked across his skin like a finger down the spine.

I mean to cover much more ground.

Only he was not sure which way or if that even mattered.

He dared to allow himself to look towards her face as if she was a compass who might guide him.