Syrena

let the water take me

She certainly isn’t one to assume that being a man is what makes anyone a bad conversationalist. Have you met her? She’s a terrible conversationalist. Helovia has forced her to learn, and she’s far better than she was a few years ago. Even a year ago, really. She remembers all too well standing on the beach scaring the hell out of a stallion that supposedly also lives in the Falls, telling him of sea monsters and how she used to be one. That story never went over well, and she’s stopped talking of sirens. Mostly.

In truth, she doesn’t talk of anything that she doesn’t have to. They talk of dead things and bones and drinking, which to both Iona and Tarik’s points, might be the only way to make this entire task bearable. If she could actually control the water plants, and not just make them grow, she could wander down the streams and rivers letting the plants pass the bones for them. But she can’t. She can just make a whole lot of really long seaweed. Which did them no good, because that would probably die too and then they’d have to clean it up.

The black mare introduces herself as Iona, and again, Syrena tucks that name away in a place where she may or may not recall it later. Nothing personal, but after all, she forgot the name of her own Czarina. To Syrena’s tiny bit of credit, it had been quite some time since she’d seen the mare, who’d also been invaded while ruling the herd. So, there was that. She did know the names of her two current monarchs at least.

She likes Tarik’s answers, the roundabout one and the straightforward one, appreciating the humor even if she doesn’t laugh or quirk a smile. But she glances over at him, which is about as much acknowledgment of the humor that he’s likely to get. Her ocean eyes sparkles a bit though, like the sun hitting the water. When he offers the flask again, she takes it, taking a swig of the stuff that burns like hell on the way down.

After a moment though, in which she is oh-so-thankful that she wears a stone mask for a face, because the fire-burn in her throat doesn’t reach her expression, the fire turns to a warmth that simply spreads through her limbs. A feeling she both loves and hates all at once. But maybe, she could get used to it. There’s something pleasant about it, and she revels for a moment in feeling good, debating another swig. “Here’s to our backs,” she says, handing the flask back and curious if Iona will in fact drink as well.

Then she turns back to the pile of bones and stares for a moment. She couldn’t very well kick it back to Kisamoa. “Maybe we can float it back?” Maybe the streams and rivers would connect enough they could avoid too much kicking across the land.

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