The voices told me to

Bright colors dart to and fro below the melancholy-gray waves, stirred into a foam by the wind. It whips his hair all into his face and carries with it so many smells it is hard to make out any one in particular. Even if it were otherwise, Varuna likely wouldn't care. He is mesmerized by the glowing, alien bodies that seem lured toward the dark shape of him (whether out of curiosity or some more nefarious reason remains to be seen). Varuna, ever the scientist, is set on finding out.

He extends a forelimb, lifting a hoof to wave it at the animals. They dart away quickly but come right back. Some even skim past him, cold and slippery on his skin.

A voice, distant and wraithlike—barely a mutter rising up from the deep—insists he investigate farther. He lowers his ghost-of-a-muzzle so what whiskers he has bristle the surface of the small but frantic waves. The water itself seems to react, lapping excitedly at his flanks as he draws in a breath of salty air and plunges—first his muzzle and then past his eyes—below the surface. His ears bob just barely above the waves.

He peels his eyes to get a look at them. At first, there is a sting, but soon enough they adjust. White bubbles burst up from the gaping hole where his nose used to be and the squid dart away, bright smudges of color in his vision.

Then, there comes another voice from somewhere inside of him—not his own voice, but the voice of a filly, and Varuna briskly emerges. It is too loud and too tangible to belong to the phantoms of the rift (the voices he is used to). He draws his head up tall, water dripping from his chin, his eyelashes, his mane, as he blinks the brine from his vision and searches all about him for where it came. 

There: a pale blue shape up on the beach. 

Varuna snorts, peering down the bridge of his nose as he inspects her. He squints his eyes, wondering for a moment if it was in fact her or if he is imagining things. Then her voice comes again and Varuna quirks a brow, ears retreating into the heap of mane on his neck. It's dangerous out there, you know. Of course he knows that. He levels a critical stare in her direction, unhappy with the invasion... his skin crawls with the feeling of another in his mind... can she hear him as well?

Get out! he growls internally, thrashing his nose in emphasis, his features bent into unfriendly angles. He flares his too-large wings at her, black feathers sweeping the seawater—a display of weaponry; a warning.

/ ooc ; it's not the greatest but yay! glad to thread these two again

@Eira