Fruitless allure ensnared within coils of burning obsession waft into the skies from a gently tipped maw, steam rising into salty oxygen, twirling, dancing, twisting their way to the edges of the atmosphere, trapped within the solid Earth— she and it remain the same, wishing, hoping for a taste of the heaven's, damned to fall back upon the ground as a swan with broken wings. She trembles, to and fro, back and forth, a endless adoration of the ocean bringing her forward to the brine time and time again. It cleanses, washes, showers away the stained vermilion glass, if only but for a day, but for a hour, a millisecond of time lost, time cursed, time, time, time.

She fools herself, trickery even she is not immune, for somewhere in the back of a stashed away memory she is taken with the ideal of the brine's antibiotic burning, scalding, lavage the pollution from her bones and she shall be born once more from the froth of the blue, crafted anew, fresh, virtuous and guiltless, chaste, uncorrupted in both mind and sinew. Shadow's gleam from the lines in which separate the bog from the beach, and it is with valiance she tilts her dome toward the disease of her own homeland, her former shelter, a curse, a promise, she shall fight with her final breath to protect that which she loves, adores, trusts, and that is the ocean, the expanse of endless glaciers and the scent of the sea against her hide.
She shall defend this place with every ounce of life she has left in fragile bones.

Brought forth from dire whispers, desperate possessiveness, securing, keeping the stretch of the beach close to her as one may keep a young childe next to their breast, tossed from melancholy, dragged from sorrow, she is startled as obsidian creeps along the tanned grains below her hooves, forming images of shadows in her brain, fear circling the glass soul within, for have they come? Tension causes a stiffening of muscle, bunching cords within her chest, teeth threaten to gnash and crush, and it is then she sees the charcoal shift and form, wispy as smoke, twinkling in the morning light, marching, stilling before the grand puppeteer who controls the strings of their creation.
Sand-weaver.

He is sweat-laden, a sheen of the ocean covering the aureate and obsidian flesh of his hide, rivulets of water dripping down from turquoise and gilt, cerulean pearls dancing with intent upon his army whom stand at the ready of his command.
She calms, relaxes, frame swaying as she moves forward, a slow piaffe across the dunes, hooves slide into the oceans froth, waves crash against metallic sides, the faintest of a chocolate tinge to the sheen of her flesh, the greyhound does not break stride, trip nor falter, elegance sliding as the water from clammy sinew.
She delays stride as she comes near him, twinkling indigo filtered with mirth, a smile moving with ease across alabaster lips.
Her recruit.
Her seeker.

He is perfection, divine intervention riddled in flecks across his apparel, and the woman allows a moment to slide her pearls across his well-defined coat before switching her gaze to the golden-eyed warrior's before him. A name has not been offered, given, or blessed upon her, and no longer shall she fret with the title of sand-weaver, for it is not intimate, not close, and she shall deem him a new name upon this eve, for if he shall not grant her knowledge, she shall allow him her own forgiveness.
"Morpheus."

It is a pleasant song upon her lips, light and airy, soft as the breeze against her skin, and she thinks it shall do well.
"You do not cease to delight me with your handiwork. They are.." A gentle sigh breathes forth life, pause, a lull between lyrics in which clockwork hums and sides exhale, heavy lungs weighted down by the invisible chains of sin. "Miraculous and confounding in the brilliance which they present. How are you taking to these lands so far, my weaver?"