Swallow me whole //Any

[Warrick]

we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight

The ocean waters of Tephra are the deepest blue fathomable - unlike Ischia’s clear and translucent sea, or even Nerine’s dark and grey swells - but like a wrinkled sapphire the waves roll onto the blackened shoreline, frothing white with the choppy currents, mixed with ash and smoke. It is not an land that welcomes you easily; the sting of sulfur is strong within the nostrils of the newcomers, and the heat is merciless even in the winter. The peninsula reflects its residents: resilient, brooding, patient - like the volcano that steadily watches over them all. Parts of Tephra are beautiful, like the slow-moving streams of lava that parts from the mountain, moving through the green-gold of the grassy inland with an orange glow. The underground grottos, warm and inviting, or the shoreline at daybreak (despite the blackness of the finely ground sand). The tropical foliage, though heavy with humidity, is lustrous as well, especially in the spring when the buds of plumeria trees begin to open in white and yellow blooms, or the red and pink hibiscus that open to the sunrise and close at each dusk.

It is a land that must learn to be loved. It takes time.

The Overseer wonders how the Nerinian girl has adjusted (if at all) to the differences between the craggy cliffs she had been born into and the soft groaning of the volcano that overlooks all of Tephra. Learning of Hestia’s death, the osprey-King immediately seeks out Philomena, searching for her throughout the inlet and towards the volcano. The season of winter has slowly melted into spring, but the only difference that Warrick can feel on his skin is the increase in moisture of the air, thick against the robust color of his flanks and shoulders, which now are a shade darker from a light sweat that has soaked his skin just from wandering through the dense jungle before the beach.

When the broad, fat leaves of the jungle are pushed away by his head and chest, (they swap at his skin, droplets of water splashing onto his coat), his cerulean gaze quickly scans the appearing shoreline and easily spots Philomena against the black sand. With a snort he emerges, droplets of humidity collecting on the surface of his cobalt wings, pressing his navy legs purposefully into the shimmering onyx sand he knew so well. She is staring out into the stretch of blue ocean, nearly knee-deep in the calm roiling of waves against the shoreline.

He joins her, his presence not hidden as his shadow falls onto the sand and sea, as well as the sound of his hooves pressing into compacted and wet sand, or when his legs splash gently into the surf. The smell of wind, sun, and smoke cling to him, robust and vivid as he halts beside her. She might not be able to tell, but there is still a lingering of Nerine’s scent on her skin as if it refuses to leave her completely.

“Philomena,” he begins, his own gaze looking out beyond the shoreline and into the horizon as well, his voice solemn and deep. “I assume you’ve heard.” About Hestia’s death, your mother’s new title, your home.

Warrick

@[Philomena]