For as long as you hold this seaweed in your mouth you'll be able to breathe underwater. That's what the oceanic amalgamation, a petri dish collection of every premature fish and porpoise and turtle climax in the world, Kisamoa, had said. More like Kissmyass, the old stallion snarks internally, his throat and nostrils still stinging with the burn of saltwater and fish piss from the other day. For all the creatures promises of good will his seaweed had done nothing in the mouth of the elder. He'd cheeked the long, green blade despite its rubbery texture and repugnant taste, steeled himself against the reflexive wrinkling of his nose and tested the weed himself, half submerged in the safety of the shallows, but when he'd trusted enough to inhale beneath the waters surface his only reward was pain and panic.

He'd jerked his head upward, front legs thrashing the water around him instinctively, gasping for air and sputtering heavy, moisture logged coughs from deep in his chest. The others may have survived with fanciful stories and a smattering of gifts, but as far as the auburn haired stallion is concerned, Kissmyass can go right back into the depths from whence he came.

The black is content to simply turn on his heels and head in the other direction when the creatures piecemeal body comes into view again, but before his legs can move to do so an unnatural billowing of shadow and smoke swells in front of the creature, solidifying into a distinctly recognizable form.

The Goddess, his mind dumbly repeats. Naming her of the Moon is uneccessary. She's the only female deity of Helovia. He stares, simply taking her - Her - in at first, and then shifting slightly to note those other few faces gathering around. Some of the demigods are here, only slightly lower in the heirchy of life than the gods themselves, and a few others, but he can't help feeling severely outclassed by the current company. He approaches slowly, head held level with his withers lest he insult someone capable of instantly smiting him rather than just those that wish it.

He stares down at the Goddess' hooves where her presence and power congeals the individual grains of sand into colorful crystals. His ears flick forward, watching intently as another's magic further enhances the colors. Slowly his emerald eyes work their way up to the Lady's face, to the disconcerting silver of her own pupil-less eyes.


"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'