Salt stings her nose, but she has long since become accustomed to its acrid scent washing away the world from her time in the prison, so close to the sky and even closer to the sea. It is the same scent that now clings to the girl of gold and blue before her, skittering away as some crab upon the beach, fear touching large eyes. Dalmatia knows that she should be afraid. Even as a walking skeleton, she is a fearsome, awful thing to behold. Every curve of her, dilapidated as an old house forgotten for years, still screams of raw power, of years spent hunting and diving from the sky until she is a grey mess upon the clouds and nothing more than a wraith in the sky. Before, Dalmatia was one of the Halcyon's most promising and skilled cadets. She was called a wraith many a time in their unit, quiet as a ghost and twice as deadly. She was a colorless death from the heavens themselves, or perhaps she'd been an angel, a honed blade of the goddess herself to slice through those who would turn their faces away from Vespera. Even Vespera abandoned her in that damned cell.
Perhaps it is Dalmatia who has now forsaken the gods.
That sin is not upon her brow, it does not roll droplets of sweat over her sea-slicked skin. Only the sun does that as he shines upon her mercilessly, quickly drying the kelpie. Wind stirs the shells in Sereia's hair and Dalmatia's sage green gaze shoots to them, assessing and dismissing them as a threat. Strange, though. They are strange decorations to be worn in the hair. Vespera wears know shells upon her. The people of Terrastella do not always decorate themselves in such a way either.
Nostrils flare as eyes narrow. "Visiting from the sea?" she huffs out, looking to the waves for an army more of shark-toothed women ready to devour her city....
But Terrastella is not her city. It is the home that forgot her. It is the place that threw her away. She is nothing more than trash to them and it is revolting all the same.
Beware: I am fearless, and therefore, powerful.
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