"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Tiasa often finds herself pulled to the coast and it feels like a genetic flaw. Like she is just the same as all her other relatives, just another kelpie and nereid in a long list. Part of her resents it, part of her is tempted to make a home in a desert or in the wastelands of the north. But these parts of her never are able to gain much traction. They are small voices in the back of her mind and they are drowned out by the calming crash of the waves.
She wonders, when she spots the mare, if this is just another relative. Another kelpie, either fresh from the hunt or just beginning one.
It is not that no one else can stand on the shore of Beqanna but Tiasa’s isolation has made her cynical. Better to assume so that she can be on-guard.
She approaches anyway, curious - and still intent on forcing these new experiencing on herself. What she’ll say as a greeting is fumbling through her mind when the mare turns to her - first a perfect, beautiful look of indifference and then a crack. A flash of something Tiasa pretends she has no experience with - sorrow. It is enough to continue to draw her forward, uncertain and yet all the more curious. She comes to stand beside the other but is careful to stop far enough away that there could be no accidental touches. That either of them would need to move in order for contact to be made - and that meant she would have time enough to get away. Either into the waves or further up the beach.
She doesn’t remember the last time she was touched. It must have been her mother, back when she was small. And it has been so long now she does not want to waste such a precious moment on an accident. Or on just anyone. And it remained to be seen whether this stranger was just anyone or not.
Only then does she speak, watching the grey stranger from the corner of her eye but feigning attention on the horizon, allowing the other mare the illusion of privacy to gather herself back together if she wished. She doesn’t remark on that crack in the mask, thinking she’d hate it very much if someone had done that to her. Her voice is still not as smooth as she wishes, it is still raspy with disuse, but words are beginning to flow a little easier. “Rendering a pretty face speechless is my second favourite way of being greeted.” The teal mare considered all attention worthwhile, no matter whether it came from a mare or a stallion.
