[OPEN] ARRIVAL

[seaboard]

Who: Gilia St. Loe ( seaboard ) & You!
What: Arrival!
When: May 5th-7th
Where: The Beach, The Trench, etc!

out of the sea
It is a mournful thing, to leave the sea, and its quiet peace, that happy drifting nothingness. She is not cold, as she leaves it, the thin robe clinging to her body, damp as she looks back over the water, feeling its tides in her blood and yet now, no longer the peace of it. This body she has been given comes with pain, and scars, and she was bare to them all in leaving. Holding her face in her hands as she looks over the sea she had washed up from, transformed back to living, back to this dreadful coil of breath and limbs.

And this grief-stricken wallowing that grips up her throat.

She buries her face in her hands and weeps. Why ever had she come back to this life? Had she not done enough? It was not fair?

So standing on the shore, wet robes clinging to her, hair moving to float above her head in a great fan of curls, she cries her fill at this agony of being born once more. But it seemed fitting she should have no peace, no respite, she had not lived a kind life, and there would be no mercy for her.

walking the streets
Exhausted as the crying leaves her, she knows that the sea will not take her back, not yet. Instead, she finds her own garments, which she hastily pulls over her body, the bag that washed up with her. Hanging the bag from her belt, she straightens up and heads to the lights she sees of the Trench.

It's done with the pride of a woman who was used to wielding a great deal of authority. Head up, shoulders back, each step purposeful even if she is quite unsure about what it is exactly she is meant to do. Looking about, she tries to find some indication of a local ruler, someone she can talk to, to be received properly and not err on behalf of local customs.

But nothing seems to direct her to one, so she has to eventually just stomp any passerby, looking for guidance.

"Pardon my boldness, but I would ask - where is the local Lord or Magistrate? I should wish to make my introductions to the rulers of the city?"

Her voice is level, with little to no inflection one way or another, a tall woman who kept herself to her full height, made taller with her hair just keeps floating above her head like it was suspended in water, despite being on land and otherwise perfectly dry.

And the scar that cuts up the side of her throat. From clavicle to her jaw, jutting into her cheek. A strange thing, for it seems old, and yet... not healed. Not in the traditional sense. The skin is healthy around it, sure enough, but not joined, like a crack broken open, and inside of it, just on the edge of the light, something churns and swims. Absently, a starfish arm creeps out, as if it were holding the skin together. Latching on like strange adornment.

setting up house
When she finds out that she is simply contributing to the world and the good of the city here, and take an empty house of choosing, there is an... ease, she hasn't felt in years. The lack of expectations, that comfort settles around her. She has no interest in the supposed power in her blood, or power at all.

Settling in a house in Darcmouth, close to the water, no matter how dreadful and dingey the docks are, that it's all men or all the warnings about the sea. She opens up every window and door as she begins to sweep out the empty house, wipe down tables, clear out the chests and cupboards. It's not long until there is the smell of food cooking, a stew broiling over the fireplace, bread baking.

The doors and windows are still open, and inside there can be heard soft singing. The words lamenting a swan who was too slow at the strike of an eagle, and something about lovers being struck down.

It seems that she is not so worried about someone knocking on the door.