The light seemed to become a smaller and smaller halo above them the further they descended, an odd sensation it was, to be at the mercy of a creature you could not discern as good nor evil. How he wished for his magic at that moment, so he may wrap himself and those who had ventured with them in a protective shell of starlit ice and carry them all safely in glittering orbs while the darkness crept ever close. Unnaturally pale eyes stayed fixated on his Thero'shan, the waterfall of suspended hair which flowed from his neck obscured her every now and then with each stroke he took.

With the weed firmly clamped within his mouth, he followed her when she began to glide through the water toward Kisamoa, a plume of bubbles snorted from his lips as he did so. If he could, he would of warned her to stay closer, so that she was within touching distance should anything happen. That he could place himself as a barrier between her and whatever may or may not have been lurking. The mind was such a curious thing, and youth was often lost on the content, why should he stifle her so? So he did nothing but follow with a careful amount of applied caution. He was mortal after all, and though he was the Moon's chosen messenger, he was not as powerful as he used to be. He was flesh and blood, not starlight and magic.

The reef came into view with a soft pulsating light from Kisamoa's bio-luminescent horn, and silver eyes naturally cast downward to the creatures and sprawling expanse of coral and the creatures which had not seen the light of day for many turns of the full moon. He stilled his movements and allowed himself to float in a sphere of pale hair fluttering in the breeze, the metallic sheen of his coat reflecting the light as he simply was. No fuss, no movement, adrift in the lull of the undercurrent. It was beautiful, untouched by horses who sought to create great spiraling white cities beneath the waves, no scaled naga which lounged upon sponges bejewelled in the sea's most precious quarry.

Kisamoa spoke then, and drew him from his pensive wandering, and tender homesickness for the Water Goddess' atlantis. A word? There were so many words to pick, ones that had no meaning and ones that held so much sentiment in their small embrace. To pick only one? Madness. He stayed silent in both mind and body as he fretted with a scholars dilemma over what could be worthy enough, and just like the light which had shimmered into existence at Kisamoa's silent command, did the word come to him.

Fragility. Life was such a fickle, fragile thing above the waves, and no doubt below it. The hung on tender threads made of glass and steel, which sang both delight and sorrow. Peace and strife ruled in equal accords for a time before one outweighed the other. Life was fragile, life was beautiful and life was made of glass. It could shatter in an instant, but held in the right light, it shone with all the happiness in the world.