They are alike in ways they do not know. Creatures that are not really cut out for rank and herd life. Creatures that prefer to be solitary. Though Syrena prefers the sea to somewhere cold chuck of land. But still, they could relate to this hell that Helovia has concocted. Jobs, hierarchy, herds with kings and queens. Did the Gods themselves create the ranks, or did some power hungry earlier horses simply name themselves monarchs and put all the peasants in their place? She doesn’t know this. Probably she should know this. It’s her job to know things, after all. But of course, she’s terrible at her job.

Though she is trying. In the same way she’s trying here, being friendly even though she is not a friendly creature. But there’s no other way for her here. She could wander the shoreline, lamenting the loss of her siren powers until she finally just kicked the bucket. Or she could live in this life that she hated, but at least it was a life. And that was something; even if it was not the something she would have chosen.

The black mare is large, though not larger than Syrena. This pleases her, if nothing else. She doesn’t like feeling small, and there are so many in Helovia that make even her feel small. The silence between them grows for a moment, thick and tangible. Anyone else might find it awkward, but the seal-gray mare finds it comforting. She does not necessarily mind the stranger’s one eye either as it roves over Syrena, lighting on her scales and gills. In truth, it pleases her to be looked at in such a way. Maybe not as a beautiful, as she used to be, but at least as something worth looking at. That, at least, she was. Even in Helovia, Syrena stood out.

Eventually, the words come, short and gritty, and in this too Syrena finds some level of comfort. It’s a familiar way of conversing, without wasting words or time. But not quite the same as trying to converse with Isopia, who took everything far too literally. Though Syrena was trying to figure out how to converse with their now Czarina as well. Because she had to. Whatever dislike they harbored for the other needed to be left behind, or Syrena would fail as the Storyteller. “I live here. Do you?” Come the reply, also short, her voice deadpan but lyrical somehow. A remnant of her days as a true siren. Her voice still held a hint of that song, though there was no emotion or power behind it now. Perhaps she should say more, but for now, she didn’t care about anything else other than determining if they had a trespasser in their midst.


les words "chat chat"

Syrena

let the water take me