There's something soothing about sand under foot. The way it molds and pushes and falls around itself as hooves glide into it with ease. Its a different sensation than the hard resistance of dirt or the spongy firmness of grass. Coris' relishes in the sensation, steps snapping up higher than needed to fling the grains further. He can feel them collecting in-between his toes, but the ever present roar of the tide promises to cleanse him.

There were no beaches where he came from. No mighty sea or screaming gulls. There was only ice and snow and unrelenting ground.

A breath is drawn in and the scent of salt tickles his nose. Such a foreign aroma it cannot help but chase away the smoke of memories. He came to this place for such that purpose. He'd seen the dancing blue upon the volcano's rim, and since scuttling down began to bear in its direction. Though it was only the prior day that he'd stood upon the twisted peak of the fire mountain, where his pleas were answered by the mare of the moon and his fate sealed with a nod of the head - it felt like it had already been forever. Coris smirked at this feeling. He supposed it felt an eternity because it had been nearly as long since he'd seen home. Odd that he'd never quite felt this ache in his chest until he'd agreed never to return there, a pact sealed with the stars of the night sky and the word of a mostly honest stallion. Assuming the supposed night-mare actually was a god and her decree viable.

I doubt and yet still I search for the faces she spoke of, Coris mused, stopping along the darker, wetter sand nearer the froth of the rushing tide. What else had he to do, but hope she was everything she was meant to be? If nothing else, he'd waste a few seasons searching, no different from what he was doing before he hiked across the veins.

A dismissive snort cleared such tumbling thoughts. Too much thinking for a stallion more accustomed to using his horn and hooves. Teeth clenched - there was a grittiness when he bit down and he could not help but wonder how sand had gotten in his mouth - as Coris walked towards the waters edge. No sea-horse, the stallion flinched and balked at the white, rushing waves that chilled and numbed and soothed all at once. Since his wayfaring times outside of Alaglasia, Coris had found the ocean to be a valuable tool for him. Two fresh kills were slung across the nape his neck, blood still faintly dripping from the doe's hock. Knotted with leather cord, the scraps of animal pieces were tugged and dowsed by the sea. Her salt would leech into the flesh and cure it of impurities and lingering blood that would otherwise make his work messier later. Up to his chest the waves broke, and with white-rimmed eyes he shuffled hooves as the sand underfoot threatened to run out from beneath him. The leather adornments on his back were better left un-salted, but his chest strap would need oiling eventually after this little dip. Careful to avoid his head getting wet, the leather across his face and guarding his horn's base too precious and too ancient to be handled so carelessly by the foam.

Stiff and steadfast as he was, Coris' eyes eventually snagged on the pair mad enough to let the ocean consume him. For a wild moment Coris thought them drowning, fighting to reach the shore ling. Not one tending to involve himself in other's business, Coris was mildly irrational due to his own fearful respect of the lady sea and the mighty force she provided. Half-panicked, Coris' body began to thrash through the liquid salt, limbs moving agonizingly slow in the depths as he called out in a shrill whinny to them.

His cries did not fall on deaf, or rather, distant ears. They turned together and began to return to shore. Relief flooded Coris like an instant balm on a burn. Instinctively, perhaps fearing the same fate as they, he took several steps back from the ocean and visibly calmed.

In retrospect, he would realize how easily the pair glided through the waters back to shore, not in the least bit panicked or breathless. In the moment though, Coris thinks them lucky to have him on the shoreline to aid them, although he did no more than stand and scream like an anxious filly. Warning them from getting too far out a gruff part of his subconscious rebukes, sullen at being so useless in this predicament.

The leopard unicorn arrives first and with a strong and dare it be said, authoritative voice, asks a question most puzzling. "What's wrong?" Coris can only stare, confusion plain on his scarred face as he glances between the two, the roan mare having come up shortly behind the pale one. They both seem at ease, albeit dripping wet and stained with salt and foam residue across their backs from their hasty retreat.

"W-w-well yous was drowning!" He stammers at them, 'brow furrowing as the cogs of his brain try to figure this out. How are they so calm? "Weren't you? I mean, you were so far, in the ocean!" He calls her name out loud and long, obviously awed and wondered by it as his eyes widen and his mouth sets back like an 'O'.

They stand calm and stoic in a way that unnerves the hunter. There is an edge to this pair that live in The Edge. There must have been something of importance that got interrupted by his cry. He can only guess this by the annoyance on the appaloosa, and the unwelcoming gaze of the roan. Neither of them are cruel in any fashion, but there is a coldness to them. Rain can be as cold as snow, sometimes more.

His eyes grow hooded with caution.

A smile breaks the steely facade of the pale one. He speaks with a softer tongue now, his words soothing even, as though caressing the undeveloped mind of a child. Coris cannot help but feel more at ease. In many ways he is a distraught colt. Instantly he is warmed by the FrostHeart.

"I've never known any to swim so far out," Coris murmurs by way of explanation, and perhaps apology. Abashed he drops his head, ears tilting back nervously and a forehoof scuffing the ground in poorly concealed embarrassment. "Where I'm from, we have no sea. Though some rivers are nearly as deadly." Coris' features are grave and serious, though his gaze remains anywhere but on the stern pair, too ashamed still to meet their eyes, whatever they might hold.

He is about to mumble some take of leave. After all he still has business to attend to and assuredly, so do they. Yet the silver girl speaks finally, holding him. Though her tone is not hard, there is something hiding beneath the face value of the words that makes him wonder.

He lifts his head to bring amber eyes on level with her startling blue pair. They remind him of the sea; beautiful, dangerous. His courage does not wane, not when it is the topic of his heritage, of his existence. He smiles thinly - it is arrogant almost, certainly prideful at least, before it splits to let him speak.

"I am a leather worker. She is my next project." He tilts his head in a curious manner. He sees the way her eyes trace his body - it's not the muscles she's noting, not his hue she admires. There is wonder in her expression over his attire. The equipment is so customary to him sometimes it's easy to forget its worn, much less alien to some. It's not the first time he's met someone ignorant to the ways of his birth herd.

"There is so much that can be done with a well skinned doe." His voice has grown quiet again. This time however it is with appreciation and devotion rather than discomfort. "I take it you've none such crafter in these lands?" He is genuinely curious now. He supposed it would be good to learn about the land he'd sentenced himself to living within.

The appaloosa seems thoughtful after taking in the lack of experience with the sea. Were Coris a more attentive stallion, he would have noticed and wondered at such attention in the spotted stud. There is certainly a grave sense of intelligence to the FrostHeart, to the Rain girl as well, though her's is far less ominous. She is childish in a way still, her eyes perhaps too clear, too open. The gaze of the frozen heart heart however, speaks volumes yet tells nothing. To put in terms Coris better understand, Mauja is a knife and Huyana merely a basin; he takes what he learns and uses it while she only collects.

Yet such things Coris does not truly comprehend. He is absently watching the silver mare, wondering if it is disgust that feeds her curiosity of his doe - if so he intends to squash it beneath his toe. He is sensitive to his work and has had enough grimaces and snarls aimed at him to fill a life time, he doesn't need one now.

She is silent however, and he can't read the expression she wears very well. Perhaps for the better, Mauja interjects.

"Elect, blessed?" Coris murmurs these words with a tinge of heat and incredulity. The name of the Moon God is spoken and he cannot help but clench his teeth. He still is unsure of her, but he certainly didn't expect she'd bless a herd with a crafter. Such work takes a lifetime to learn and accomplish! One does not simply wake up knowing an art, one must be born with it. Such blasphemy in his ears spirals down to the face of Coris, turning it grim and sour, as if he's just eaten foul and rotted grass. He's certainly chewing on something distasteful, though it mind fodder instead.

Coris has enough mind at least to hold the tongue that wiggles like a wounded snake in his mouth. He assumes casting their god into a poor light will earn him little favor with a stallion that seems in a word, dangerous. Still, Coris grunts, shifting his weight with unease. "I know of what you speak," he grumbles, his mood ruined. Normally he'd be kicking up his heels with joy at finding a place that not only knows of crafters, but seems to respect them to a degree and has some, especially a machine maker! How incredible to find one so rare so far out here - yet it is is all dampened by the bloody Moon God traipsing on his homeland's right, and what's worse, granting them a fragile glazier? It's enough to make him spit and fart.

"He is what we call a maker." Coris starts, his voice gruff and much older than it should be. "We have few in my homeland, but the ones we have are revered and respected above all else, even the metal makers." He pauses her, eyes drifting towards Mauja, holding him firm and gauging him as he talks. "There is hierarchy among crafters. Metal smiths rank highest, and among them it varies depending on their metal - the top are those that can work all ores. My own kind is lower, and glass," his voice is thick with rancor, "sits on the bottom. We are ranked by the worth of our craft and the strength of it. Glass is pretty and it can cut, but it is fragile and it is not-withstanding." Perhaps it is different here, and idea which only riles him further. How little the world knows of his kind, yet how often they beg for their skills. He hates it.

"But back to your, engineer, he stands above all crafters - any maker does. This is because they don't just create and work the craft, they breathe a sort of life into it, they can get it to cooperate with other crafts all on their own. My herd exists as it does with all of the crafting families working together, but it takes many of our hooves what only a set of his can do." With machines Coris guesses that electricity is used, but he doesn't understand the full depths of it all. The Makers in his herd did not often talk freely of their abilities, perhaps fearing that for others to understand would enable them to do similar.

"Me and mine, we work leather. Perhaps not as strong as metal or stone crafters, but stronger than your own flesh and lighter than their work. Flexible too, so it does not restrict." Pride has leeched into his talk once more. Being on the lower end of the scale of crafters, you had to learn how to talk your ability up a bit. Everyone was always disappointed that he didn't work metal - stone was only good for the land really, but metal could do much, especially the good metals that were light, but strong. Still, none could compare to the mobility of his armor. His did not chaf and his did not boil in the sun - what did the metal workers need to line their armor with so that it was comfortable to wear? Why, leather of course. Coris grins. "The weather does not bother mine as much either, especially not heat compared to the metals, but water seems to do us all in eventually." Coris glances at his own sopping breast guard. He'd have to treat that with fatty oil or risk it cracking and warping.

"What we make though, is versatile. You see myself, partially adorned with some armory equipment to add protection and structure, but also ropes and bags for my catches. Leather can bind segments and connect them, it can pad the hard and the uncomfortable and it can bear a great weight without breaking. Only ask and I can make it." Head high Coris finished his bout, tail snaking between his legs with apprehension of Mauja's reaction.