Marisol may have released her, but she is still a caged storm. She never should have been unleashed upon the shores of Terrastella, climbing back into the shadows of the cliff like some crypt keeper. Regardless of her own health, her skinny sides still showing the prison and stone's neglect to her health, a paleness and sickness from years underground without tasting light plain on her brow, on her delicate-boned neck that does not shine as it should. A paler version of the magpie-woman she once was, the girl that helped rule over the Halcyon and enforce peace throughout Dusk despite its reputation left in shambles, she still rises like the tides that she so despises. When she was young, it was said that her father was taken by the sea, shreds of his skin found washed up on the beaches, strewn along the innards of the swamps.
Kelpies.
Dalmatia knew their hunger made them into raging beasts, tending to their more basic natures than those within the city did. Her father had left one morning on a mission with his unit... None returned.
That day, she'd learned two things. One, her father would never return. Two, kelpies were unredeemable monsters.
Her father had not taught her to despise other creatures, not those stuck on land nor in the water, not strange sand vipers and other mixes. He'd raised her well, he treated others well... And she'd been left to wonder, as a young thing, why those creatures had taken one of the most honorable men she'd ever known?
Disgust is an ember in her chest, easily ignited with gasoline and scales into a fire that burns hotter and hotter. Today, she goes to the shore where what was found of her father, what was burned of him later, had been scattered off the edges so that he might find peace in the calm of the waves and the storms of the skies.
Today, she sees something wash ashore and quickly begin to walk. Its ribs heave, its eyes are bright, its nerves are easy to see like a rabbit before it dies at the hands of some bird of prey. There is a frown, a knotted brow, a knotted chest, and pure hostility as she darts from behind her own shadowed alcove. This thing does not smell of dusk, not that Terrastella is hers to protect anymore.
"Halt, who goes there?" She growls out, marching forward as a conqueror, a warrior of justice, a woman with a chip on her shoulder and nothing nice to say.
Beware: I am fearless, and therefore, powerful.
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