don't mind the rust

The stench of salt is heavy in the air, and it’s all she has to go off of really. When Ceridwen woke, a thick blanket of fog slithered through the forest, entwining through tree trunks.

She feels like an Eldritch God, shouldering off scraps of moss and loose leaves with a long groan and a grunt to follow. Maybe it suits her more than chain, dirt, and oil.

Heaving upwards, she shakes (bone necklace rattles) her thick coat—long for the summer, and sure to shed immensely, once her body conditions to… wherever this may be. She squints, glaring out into the fog, and lets her nose guide her further and further into the lull of salt, as if the ocean would have the answers she seeks.

---

@Esmerelda

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This place. Something was off. Something was wrong with this place. It felt... dark. Cursed. Unholy, in a way. What gave her that feeling, Esmerelda couldn't say but it was one she heeded well. Her steps here were careful, cautious, her voice silent. Even her posture was different, ears back as she strode through the forest, though slinking would have been a better word for it. The feeling in her bones was one that could not be left behind, and so, Esmerelda decided to cut her exploration short, turning back towards the ocean without hesitation.

The closer she moved to the beach and the quicker she went, the better she felt; there was a point where she was loping towards her destination and then -- And then she stopped, catching a scent that had not been there before. She heard the rattle of something or other and decided to amend her direction towards it, as her destination and this other being seemed to be in the same direction. It was not long before she came upon them either, an inky black figure walking through these cursed trees towards the very shoreline the merle-coated witch sought.

“You there. Do you live in these woods?” She asked, periwinkle eyes examining the other, the woman closely as she approached.

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Featherlight steps dance in tandem with the heavy of hers—each stride casual in the introductory quest Ceridwen aims to fulfill.

It just appears to be destiny, that she is no lone wanderer on her path. Her head swings, body curling towards the source of the approaching doll. Cinder eyes alight with dim intrigue and slow once-over (maybe twice-over) stare.

“Me?” She poses, as if it weren’t the guard the moontouched woman’s gaze rests on. “Nah, I don’t live here.” Ceridwen adds a shrug of a meaty shoulder with her answer, and eases her march towards the calling sea.

“Why? You want it?”

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Immediately, the druid found herself favoring this woman. She was strong, confident, not to mention easy on the eyes. Even better that she did not take residence in this awful place. The spirits here were most unhappy and disturbed; Esmerelda would stay far away from this place in the future, without any shadow of a doubt. She would laugh as the savage looking female with the bones hung around her neck asked her a question, shaking her head with an easy answer.

“Absolutely not,” She said with mock offense to her tone. “This place...” The sea-with looked back at it as the ocean breeze ruffled her salt-curled fur. “It feels wrong. Besides, I own a much better forest.” Her eyes slipped past the woman to indicate the sea, and the islands on their horizon. “That one there, past the dark island we call Raven Rock.” And she was proud to say that, most pleased with the island that she and Wake called theirs, called home.

Gaze falling upon the other again, Esmerelda did not hide the wake she looked her over again, a slight and perhaps flirtatious smile pulling at her lips. “Does she speak to you? The sea?”

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There’s a low lying hunger that nags on the edges of her stomach—beckons for the draw of steel.

Ceridwen cocks her head, blinking, with a laugh under breath at the offended tone. Fair be it, but the knight had an inkling that the waves curl for her—the sea air caresses the moontouched witch with fondness.

Ceridwen stands a boulder, the wind bashing against her with testing force.

“Mm,” she hums with the ghost of a grin. “That so?” The knight follows the movement the other gestures to, but her eyes remain on her for longer than necessary, and returns to meet the galaxy after Raven Rock gets a glance.

(She’s less proper than the Empress that paid her watch—she fortified the deadened land, casted behind a gargoyle on the castle walls once more.)

“She’s being gentle with me,” Ceridwen replies, with a nod. “Wonder what She’s up to, callin’ me here.” But who am I, to keep a lady waiting?

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Oh, she felt that gaze, heavy and fire-worn, as if the woman's gaze was a sword to cut through the gloom. Were she not twined with another so closely, Esmerelda might have leaned into that knife's edge until it cut, deep, but for now, she would only press her throat closer until just the edge nicked her, cut skin beneath all that fur. Similarly, the little druid moved forward, slipping past the woman in a fashion that brushed her fur against the beast's own. She only stopped when her paws touched water, the sea welcoming her with warm waters and gentle tide.

“She is gentle until she is not, hm?” She smiled again, breathing deep the scent of the ocean she belonged to, that she had quite literally born within — in this world, anyway. “Perhaps She is leading you to similar-minded kin. Leading you to us. The Sea favors our group, providing a land bountiful and beautiful, just like its leaders.” Her and Wake, of course. Esmerelda was certainly vain, but not in any serious way, her tone full of mirth and pleasure.

“You feel different than other wolves. What were you? In your life before?”

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For one, it would not be polite—and Her call sings in broad tones, soft with allure of cushion and yet fierce in her strength. The wind tests, and perhaps Ceridwen is granted a passing grade. The sea-witch takes her post next.

She is quiet in the approach, eyebrows lifted upward to stare down the edge of her muzzle, sparking with promise, until fur brushes her. Ceridwen drinks, her stone rubble breaking from stiff muscles as if timed slowed with her touch.

Bad dog she is, for she leans into the wisped ends as the moontouched returns to her first love; the one who’s drum beats to the rhythm of the Holy being that’s blessed her.

“Yes,” she says with her exhale—held breath releasing her tangled breast, displeased she could not stand drinking forever. “Perhaps She is.”

Ceridwen knows danger—dipped her toes in worse off foes than what stands before her, pressed on the edge of her sword—but the sea is a lover she’s fought falling for before. Time and time again, knowingly, for she fears those gentle caresses would soon turn stormy.

“She has good taste.” The knight amuses, taking her first step to leave the rubble of stone behind her. A choice to shed skin from gargoyle. She dips her toes into the waves that lap at their feet.

Yet pleasure averts down a slippery slope that surprises her—it leaves her another breathy laugh, this one dragging out heartier than the last. “Ah, so… you too, then?” She asks with tilt, and a pause, to allow the not-question to linger, before she answers a sober truth; “I was… forgotten.”

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Esme could not help but preen at the compliments she was given; the attention, the held breaths, the teasing touches that she knew would make her sailor jealous, but above all of that was the compliment that Lady Sea had chosen them well. Whether the comment was for her alone, or for their group, the water-nymph took it as for her group, for that was what she was most proud of. She was proud of Wake, proud of herself, of the man that had joined them, even, though she would never tell him that.

The ocean breeze filling her soul to the brim, Esmerelda opened the eyes that she had closed, glancing to her side at the thunderstorm-made-wolf. The feathers tangled in her fur drew her eyes first, then the trophies that hung 'round her neck, then her face. “I have lived many lives. This one is simply my latest in a long string.” And the most enjoyable, by far. She grinned, tail swaying slightly, though whether that was her or the wind was unknown.

“Forgotten by some to be birthed anew to a crew that will welcome, honor, and cherish you. I think you will be better off, here.” Perhaps she spoke of things she did not know, but Esmerelda was not a wolf to dwell on the negative. There was too much pleasure to be had, afterall.

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A quiet part of the knight roars with questions held tight on a slippery tongue—craving to quest into territory that she felt unready to truly indulge in. Regardless of the story that the Sea has laid out for them—kindred-spirits tangled & meant to meet—she be a sea-witch Ceridwen holds no tie nor name to.

Just a pretty face in love with the waters, confident as she is ethereal, and tempting like a succubus in a dim lit tavern.

“[...] a crew that will welcome, honor, and cherish you [...]”

Spoken like she deserves it.

“You flatter me,” she says, her smile no longer haunted. “Can’t start off with a crew I don’t know the name of, though.” Ceridwen fishes. “I’m Ceridwen Rhydderch.” Thick accented tones sweep from steady raven lips.

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Who was to say she didn't deserve it all? All of it and more, for that was the home they sought to build. To provide family and haven alike, friendship and trust within a sea-worthy community. Esmerelda was of the belief that things happened for a reason; her appearance on Raven Rock, her first meeting with Wake, the brief meeting with the woman — Yara — on the shores of the new island that they now called home, and now her meeting with this woman.

“We are of the Saltwoods. I am Esmerelda, its Mystic, and our Captain is Wake.” Briefly, the woman though of how neither she nor Wake had proclaimed any kind of surname. She wondered if Wake had one. Esme did not, so it was possible that others did not as well. “Ceridwen,” She repeated the name, rolling it over her tongue, tasting it as one would taste a fair wine. “If you would like to take a dip, we can swim across the narrows here and pass to the Rock and then beyond, to our Saltwoods.” And it was there that she would call for her lover so that she could meet the newest of their crew.

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Woe is she, for the knight casts the rusted end of her leash upon the moontouched with the weight of her cheeky intro.

Ceridwen’s name befalls from her lips, and it is that shove that plunges toes into the cold waves before her. Damnation knows she oughtn’t give so easy to the yank, yet the knight’s no stranger to the admission of defeat.

A breath is sucked into chilled lungs, and the grin flourishes toothy and lopsided on raven lips. “Esmeralda,” she teases back in soft tone following her own title that comes from her’s—poorly pronounced and savored. (Ceri hungered to hear it again.)

Head lulls in the beck of her leash’s tug across the waters. “Mm, sounds good. It’d be rude to keep Her waitin’ longer.” The knight rolls her shoulders in grandiose: “Mystics first. To your Saltwoods.”

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The life that burst into existence as the knight took a deep breath was a glorious sight to see. It was like she had been looking at the world in black and grey before someone turned all the colors on. Her eyes lit up, her expression gained a liveliness that hadn't been there before. It was impressive to watch the switch flip to on, and the Mystic was happy to ogle the woman with eyes that did not well hide the soft awe.

She would lead the way then, happy to show the Knight the way back towards the great sandbar that stretched across the open waters. “Have you lived near the Sea before?” She would ask, glancing then to the larger woman. Esmerelda had not before, but found herself adoring the environment nowadays.

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