There was water everywhere.

The sight set before his eyes was magnificent; a declaration of power, majesty, and turbulence he’d never be able to harness, harpoon, or hold, but it made him venture towards it all the more. Seemingly spread out for miles, for fathoms, the everlasting blue, the spellbinding waves, the salty air, enshrouded, veiled, and emboldened his childish ruminations, his mischievous glee. His mother, who moved like rivulets, who swindled the storms, who spoke of Cinnoru and the potency manifested within all unicorns, of blood running and gliding, harmonizing, within lakes and streams, of influential ichor drenching, saturating their souls, had told him many things about the world, but hadn’t yet allowed him to soak his presence into its depths. Perhaps she’d been worried that his youth couldn’t defy the outreach of the tide, with its rolling dominance, its intriguing authority, its pull across the earth, along the dunes, upon valiant Atlantis and its fallen kingdom. However, without her presence, he’d slunk, sneaked, and slithered his way down towards its barriers, its colossal expanse, determined, despite all of her misgivings, all of her warnings, to seek reef creatures and taste the indignant brine, to chase after gulls and leap into frothing foam. Curiosity and intrigue forged, incised, a delicate balance of bravery and audacity, of imprudence and valor, of ignorance and boldness, and as his tiny hooves sank into the damp sand, leaving the imprints of his presence, (he’d been here within the curling waves, within the rising crescendo, in the wake of its enduring horizon), ruminations and oaths failed to falter, and more queries followed. If he could press his form into its scales, would it give him mastery? Could he swallow its layers of ascendency, pulse in its corporeal brow? Could he devour the claims of avaricious sharks and cretins? Could he become endowed, proffered, permitted, the opportunity, the taste, the savoring of superiority? For in each tale his mother, his father, spoke and wove, the ideals of triumph sounded like heaven.

The lithe, little scion drew one hasty, quaking breath as he stood one step away from the tide’s touch. Confidence faded for a single, decisive moment, because what if he was truly taken away from home, suddenly an ocean’s lost child? What if the waves crashed over his cranium, his body, and drove him to pieces, slashed him over rocks and left him with naught but a sudden, violent demise? Would his sire, would his dam, be disappointed by his actions, spurning and ruining his own bright future with a slip of valor, with a notion of grandeur? He swallowed, then pushed his motions, his movements, back into place, incapable of allowing himself to be a frozen speck on the shore, afraid and hesitant. He waited for the rush of the waves to take him under, or the cool, listless contortions of its idle touch, pressing and gentle.

However, instead, upon the strange notion that he hadn’t entered the sea at all (because the refreshing feel was under his hooves, and that couldn’t be right), he looked down and saw his daggers, his frame, his body was on top of the churning sea.

[For @[Faeanne] and @[Arya] (if time permits thee. ;D). Erebos discovers water-walking! o:]