dear fellow traveler

It had been difficult reaching the small island paradise, but the nymph stands triumphantly on its shores, absolutely drenched, chewing thoughtfully on some exaggeratedly succulent piece of fruit she had found. Briny rivulets unfurl over her silvery mantle like crystalline ribbons, clinging to the subtle curves of her body until they fall unbidden onto the tepid sand. For once, the sun presents her fair countenance to the corrupt land over which she presided, blessing the creatures that dwell beneath her with blissful warmth and effusive optimism. Although she is made of rain and born of storms, Lothíriel is not exempt from feeling particularly nice on a sunny day, especially when her life feels so awry. Even Thingol is content, his wings spread luxuriously over the back of his bonded as he sunbathes. The sunlight glints off his feathers like delicate mother-of-pearl, reflecting pastel pinks and blues and yellows. The roan girl pauses her snacking, violet gaze flicking inland towards the island's lush tropical forest. It feels less unsettling here; elsewhere, she can feel the weight of a hundred hungry eyes on her, but this paradise was splendid, all sunny shores and happy singing birds.

When she is finished with her fruit, her cloven hooves take her to the ocean's lip, where its frothy fingers caress the pale sand. For the first time in what seems like forever, a little smile creeps onto the flower girl's face when she beholds the ocean, a gentle sea-breeze tousling her fair mane. Water washes over her cleft toes, glittering in the sunlight as it continually withdraws and returns. The raven gathers his wings and leaps off her back, gliding gracefully into the clear azure skies. She watches her bonded glide over the water, admiring his alabaster feathers. They had come so far from where they had begun and witnessed so much together—he is the moon to her evening stars; a quiet, constant radiance in her life where all else fell into darkness.

Awakening from her reverie, Lothíriel's eyes turn towards the sand and surf beneath her hooves. A bright blue crab scuttles her way, and ignoring her better judgment, she dips her nose to get a better look at it, cautious of its little pincers. It is unlike any crustacean she has seen before, fluorescent green markings scattered over its baby blue shell. Thick fur lines its six fine legs, small gemlike growths stuck on the end of each hair. It waves its claws threateningly towards her when the girl dares to move even closer, darting towards her with surprising speed. She reels backwards onto her haunches, splashing into the cool seawater and far away from the crab. After a few tense moments pass, her eyes crinkle with amusement at the sheer thought of the absurd scene she had made, laughter spilling out of her smiling mouth. The crab had been no bigger than a quarter, and yet it had frightened her as if it had been the size of a bear! In a fit of wild youthful glee, the nymph leaps into deeper water, paddling blithely beneath the radiant sun, utterly oblivious to anyone who might be observing her.

how the rose in your heart you hold

still all the water in your wells won't make it grow


for @Raistlyn
but anyone else is welcome to join!

He swam until he could swim no longer. And when he reached that point, the dark ranger swam some more. To be honest, it’s a wonder he hadn’t drown already. Raistlyn had never been one for water that went higher than his knees, or any water in general, now that he thought about. Swimming was not an ability factored in his arsenal of skills. A swimming incident his first year of training in the Order had nearly killed him. During the rigurous first Trial he had been a mere yearling, wrestling with a Drowner on the shore of the Black Lake.  True to its name and nature, the hairless water monster had managed to drag his body below and into the black depths of the lake, a cold, empty darkness of ethereal silence that haunted him still. Needless to say, he did not do very much swimming after that particular incident. He had seen the shimmering mirage of the island from the Southern shore, fading in and out of view, like the stars that seem to dim in the night sky once he focused his gaze on a particular one, and as soon as he glanced away, the star shone vividly once more. The sight of the lone island intrigued him, bringing forth a sense of exhilarating adventure he not felt in many years. Ever since he was a mere Potential back in the days of his youth, he had heard rumor of the vanishing isle and its whimsical, elusive nature, but even after all of his seasoned travels in every corner of the Rift, he had never managed to find the hidden island.   Despite the challenge of the long swim, he found, much to his surprise and chagrin, that he could not ignore the intrigue of the mysterious island, nor could he quell the desire to explore, to range far and wide to discover new and strange places.  Raistlyn stumbled onto sand, at last. He coughed, staggering in the warmth of the pale sand, wincing at the taste of sea brine burning his throat. His silver hair hung in thick, wet strands plastered across his neck and the beads of the sea glistened on his striped coat. A sudden, crippling weariness that went deeper than the ache of his muscles swept over him suddenly, urging him to sink to his knees, and then finally, heaving onto his side. He felt incredibly vulnerable, sprawled over in the wet sand like a beached whale, of all things. Raistlyn never lay to find comfortable rest, not unless he was on his probable death bed, which happened more often than he would prefer, but nevertheless, even then it took a great deal of self convincing to rest on the ground. Never. It was a rule he rarely broke, if ever; an iron rule instilled in his survival instincts back when he could hardly walk. Better an uncomfortable sleep standing, than a pleasant one on the ground, defenseless as a newborn fawn. A down horse is a dead horse, the elder rangers would say.  And yet, after all the years of his training, his discipline he could not bring himself to stand. The air seemed clean here, and the essence of the island was not riddled with disease and corruption. It was simply... peaceful. After everything that had happened in the past few days, no—years—the ranger just needed to lay here quietly, for a bit, maybe rest his eyes, that’s all. Destiny, however, did not have a peaceful nap in mind for Raistlyn. A girlish, clear squeal brought him clambering to his feet, damp sand flying out from under him and spraying in his eyes in his haste to stand. He blinked the sand from his eyes rapidly, trying to discern the direction of the rippling laughter that floated whimsically on the breeze. He jogged down the beach, every sense alert. Sirens? Harpies? Which sea creature stalked him, this time? But it was neither. He stopped abruptly. Just a girl. A silver whisp of a girl, playing in the sea, a white raven soaring above her. Why did he always stumble upon women during their private bathings? Couldn’t they find some place less public to frolic about in private? He then remembered that this island was about as remote and isolated of a bathing place that there could possibly be. He cleared his throat, loudly (and awkwardly), not entirely sure how to proceed. He had not expected to meet anyone here.  He was thinking of possible combinations of different words, hoping he could string together somewhat of a cordial sentence, when he saw a dark shadow in the crystal clear water, something disrupting the the gentle waves with an alarming amount of appendages... "Watch out!" His voice was sharp, tense. Not wasting a moment more, he hurled himself into the the waves, bounding through the water, his legs feeling like he was trapped in quicksand, not moving fast enough. He floundered, ramming his body against her slight figure, shoving her through the water towards the beach, half dragging and half drowning her after the initial shove, not stopping until they both stumbled from the sea and fell onto the sand. He glanced back, breathing heavily. The creature was gone.  --- R A I S T L Y N --- of the rift

Taking a brief reprieve from her maritime frolicking, Lothíriel looks out over the endless blue expanse of the ocean, a gentle seabreeze threading its fingers through her flower-studded hair. Lilac and anemone and lilies cling to the fair strands, their many-colored petals fluttering in the wind. Although she was born in the shadow of a mountain, and her mother before her in a great forest, Lothíriel feels the call of brine beckoning to her blood. Generations of her forefathers had presided over some shore or another; first it was Cinnoru, father of unicorns, then Ignatius, then Nepdon. Her father's first breath had been taken on a beach—it was named the Moonlit Tides before it was destroyed by the hands of unmerciful gods, and it had housed countless unicorn. She sighs, looking upwards to her white-winged friend, studying the way light filtered through the fibers of his feathers. If the Great Sundering hadn't utterly destroyed her parents' birthplace, the Tides would have been her home too, but then again, if Helovia hadn't been destroyed, it would have been her children's home. Was there a curse cast on her line? Were they all doomed to roam the earth, homeless and crownless?

Thingol crows, dipping towards his girl; he wants to tell her something, but the link joining them together is precariously weak and he cannot communicate the words to her. The sound of something tearing into the waves snaps her attention to the shore; something with her same shades of lilac and silver and white barrels towards her. Florid eyes widen, exposing a neat circle of white around the iris.

Watch out!

"Hey—"

Then the world turns itself upside-down.

The heavy body collides with her own, sending her delicate form crashing gracelessly into the surf. She cries out, although her voice strangled by the gargle of seawater. Slender legs buckle and thrash against the force, although they can do nothing as she is dragged to the shore, prone and helpless as a child. Brine seems to encompass her entire world—it enters her mouth, her eyes, her nose, her ears. When the waves and the stranger deposit her unceremoniously onto the dry sand, Lothíriel reels onto her limbs as quickly as the forces of physics allow her to, all the while sputtering and coughing and cursing, ready for an attack. However, as soon as she clambers onto her feet, the girl tumbles backwards onto her side, dizzy with effort. Fear traces harsh lines on the planes of her face, as she sizes up her assailant—her dark ears flipping back and forth with uncertainty. He is not a bloodthirsty monster at all, she decides, but a striped stallion who looks just as winded as herself. When she realizes that he means no harm (probably), the nymphet's eyes narrow. "What is the meaning of this?" she snaps, sounding just as fearsome and menacing as a particularly mean puppy.

She clambers once more onto unsteady hooves, swaying a little as she attempts to summon her most imperial impression, though she falls short of regal due to the wet sand clinging to the silver of her body. Thingol alights onto her back, watching the banded stranger curiously. The lilac girl huffs, lion's tail snapping irritably against her dripping hind legs. "Is this how you greet guests in this godforsaken place?" She dares to move closer towards the stranger, pausing a length before him; even if he is planning on eating her, she will have her questions answered with some semblance of dignity.

how the rose in your heart you hold

still all the water in your wells won't make it grow


@Raistlyn
sorry for the wait!!