His footsteps are things that echo through the vast expanse of Pangea, things that reverberate against the rocks and through the joshua trees- his breath carries on the wind and is warm in the wake of its retreating frost. Delta’s shadow burns the ground and darkens the very trail he takes through the land; but it is not unnoticed. In the corners bent and bound to impossible geometry, she lingers: watches- and waits. In the darkness she inhales watery breaths and deathrattles, but she does not approach immediately: no, it would be too soon. Yidhra instead waits, and watches- she follows his movements and his pace, stares at him from the inky dark: oily and moving as if they were breathing… those uncanny shadows remained.
Yellow and gray, red and brown: the rusted and grounded colors of stone and soil, it all is dulled by a seeming moisture and saturation. On the brine-coated joshua trees barnacles cling and anemone writhe: starfish and snails all lay dying, drying out from the rise of the land. It is not by any means a pretty place, no, there is a stench of rot and wasting corpses: of fetish breath and gas from the bloated whales and porpoises strewn in a deaths stranding along the various reaches and cliffs. Fish, too, wriggle and die: flies feasting on bodies and the occasional nauseous wet pop fills the air: the bloated bodies of a leviathan exploding and leaving blood, viscera, and offal in a coating around the area.
Saline pools of blue boil and bake, sulfurous gasses bubbling and jettisons of hot water pouring from geysers… Pangea is a bubbling pit of festering plague disease. It is a land of grotesque proportion and Yidhra’s tentacle slither along the surface of the stones: taste the bile and brine, feel the edges and jagged places where prey has long hidden. She decides that patience has bided her enough time, and as such she places a single hoof before the other- walking ahead and through the bleak valleys and chambers of stone: the pueblos lost and weathered by ocean and time.
To Delta she walks, grey-green and black with algae on her skin: porous and hairless, fleshy and wet. A snowflake like varnish of gray and white cover her and her chimerical face is split perfectly: white and black; but her teal eyes possess barbell shaped irises and orange flecks. She is a creature whose movement is so perfected and poignant that each step is curated into a graceful display all its own: the tendrils of her mane and tail writhing and those on her shoulders lifted and hovered- testing the ground before her and eventually curling upward and preen the mass of furth tentacles on her face. No nose, no jaw- on a split center point where well beneath a chitinous beak clattered and clicked.
“Oh deary, setting foot in Pangea at this time.” she purrs, her voice is, however, an awful thing: smokey and thick with an accent ancient and long forgotten. It carries the watery suggestion of drowning, or that she is: as from the tendrils of her mouth a viscous syrup-like drool tinted red drops to the ground. “You’ll begin to feel it soon: the weakness and fever, coughing or blood in your nostrils- the pestilence that inevitably besets us all here.” chosen are her words and she tilts her head, wiping her own tendrils and exposing the beak for the slightest moment. She recalls all things but, for the moment a fascination becomes her own and she shakes her head at Delta softly: almost sympathetic.
Still, she talks: lengthy of word and poised- watching. “There is hope for a cure though, the Fairies are working to their end; but can you trust them? They who did not intervene but rather enables to very rise of Pangea and the actions that would lead to this sickness. I am Yee-tho-rah (Yidhra), and if you would stay a moment to talk… I might be able to help you recover faster than most. You see, we need a cure- not treatment of the symptoms.” she shrugs, plain and forward in her ways and method.
She contemplates his fear, the manipulation of it: the taste and the form… yet she remains, for now, without inducing it.
Yidhra
@[Delta]