Sereia stands at the heart of the markets. It is here that the great moon carving shifts with the waxing and waning of the moon above. The weight of her body is heavy upon land. She feels the pull of gravity tugging her down, down. She had felt it as she stepped ashore and wove her way up from the docks and into the vibrant square. But here, stood in the beating heart of the markets, she feels lighter, as if the moon pulls her up, up. The moonshine is like the sea, Sereia things. It is tempting to dance and she does.
She is less graceful on the land, her feet move differently, her body lacking the grace it possesses cradled in water Yet she moves as they all do, she lets the dancers move her as the tide does. She laughs as she goes, she swallows down the saliva that pools on her tongue. Hearts beat fast here, bodies warm and she is so utterly ravenous. Her angular sides heave with her effort (of dancing, of not eating) but Sereia has trained her life for this and as a stranger presses close as they dance, she laughs and relishes the moment and dreams she could be normal. But soon her face is pressed into the warm of their neck, her lashes tangling in their hair, her lungs filled with the scent of their body, their blood.
Sereia peels away, elegant, unflustered, like a shadow and steps away into the crowds. She disappears as dreams do upon waking. Her sharp teeth, bereft of food, bite into her own lip, anything for blood, for meat, her body begs. Trembling, with the euphoria of the crowd, with the effort of controlling her kelpie, she steps up to a stall, honeyed cakes and buns lining their stalls. She picks a baklava that melts in sheets upon her tongue. It tastes delightful, it soothes the bite upon her tongue where blood blooms like sweet jam.
But it does not sustain her. Sereia’s stomach twists painful enough she takes a breath. But it is not bad, not yet. She has been worse. Slim and slender she weaves her way along the stalls, her eyes gleaming with every trinket that passes before them. She has found similar things in the ruins of ships, caught by pirates, or wrecked in storms. Yet rarely does she find silks and scarves not ruined by the sea. She picks up one, it is the colour of midnight and moonlight. Silver moons and stars gleam as scattered across it as if the scarf is a night sky for a world she has not yet discovered. The merchant wraps it about her throat and she blushes and smiles and wonders what it is like to have such wonderful things. “Thank you,” Sereia breathes, though she unwinds it from her throat and turns to the figure beside her. “I think it might be more your colour though.” And indeed it is.
@Nestle
an unspoken soliloquy of dreams
~ Ariana
