RP:A Warning

Part of the Two If By Sea Arc

Cenril, Sandy Beach

Moire is not on the shipwreck per se, but rather below it. The selkie's hair is what can be readily seen, and through the shattered hull of the ship, at that. Drifting like a slick of striated oil along the sea floor, the wavy tendrils undulate wildly at the ends, while the roots are tethered to a pale, moon-bright face with wide, inky eyes that peek out from just beneath the rent and submerged aft portion.

Krice arrived at the beach and halted shy of the shipwreck, at first casting a searching gaze out across the waves. With a wrapped-up parcel pinned to his left hip by his hand, he searched only for a few seconds before different sounds of water drew his eye toward the wreck itself. He tilted his head and, with a furrow to his brow, watched for any sign of life.

Moire quickly retreats beneath the cover of the shipwreck, none too eager to be seen by the land-walking male. Thanks to the current, the selkie's long, luxe hair continues to wave like a forest of giant kelp from beneath the wreckage. A pale, white hand shoots out, gathering the loosed locks against the palm, encircling the breadth of the khol black spread with great difficulty before an attempt is made to drag the errant strands into hiding.

Krice blinked and tilted his head. A -third- sea-creature? The warrior stepped forward to the water's edge where the foamy tide broke around his boots and he halted, staring into the darkness following the appearance of that hand and the departure of those inky tresses. " I won't hurt you," he called, his voice firm enough for her to hear, but hopefully not so firm that she would think him a brute ready to strike.

Moire nods slowly to Krice's question, one mahogany-flecked brow peaking high against her smooth, porcelain complexion. There's a moment of confusion that passes over the selkie's face, her eyes drifting to the open waves and water in unspoken curiosity. "Moire," the monk replies, a harsh whisper propelling the word forward and accentuating the almost nonexistent "r" in her name, as if someone divided the word "mire" into two syllables.

Krice waited without impatience to see if Moire understood his question; when she seemed hesitant, he parted his lips in preparation to further explain himself. Soon enough, though, the selkie provided an answer that -sounded- like a name, so he was convinced enough that she needed no further help understanding him. " Moire," he echoed, partly a question to be sure that he pronounced it correctly. " My name is Krice."

Moire flinches just slightly, over-large optics flickering shut before leaping back to the swordsman's face. Another nod issues, a short, sharp gesture that is barely rocked out by the moplike, black crown. "Krice," the selkie repeats, though the word ends up less formed, and the hard "k" noise weakens into a guttural "g". Crease has been greased. The selkie draws her tongue between her lips, a quick flick of nerves and discomfort, as if her mouth were too dry.

Krice smirked in subtle amusement at Moire's butchery of his name, which he took in good humour; after all, his was a name formed by those who could speak such harsh letters as Ks, not by soft creatures who dwelt in the depths of the ocean, protected from such jarring sounds. " It'll do," he murmured, before casting his gaze out across the ocean. " Moire," spoke the silver-haired male, his gilded gaze returning to the selkie before long. " Why did you come up here to the ship?" Krice nodded to indicate the wreck, just in case the female was unsure of his meaning.

Moire thrusts her chin in indication of the docks to the north. "Between here and another dry land over there," the religious warrior states, one hand rising to point a single, callused finger toward Rynvale, "They are raising a ship. Bringing it up from the sea floor. It belongs to us. They must stop."

Krice glanced northward to the docks, and then further east, as indicated by Moire, toward Rynvale. He listened to her answer and frowned thoughtfully as his gaze returned to her doe-eyed face. " Ships are built by land-walkers, -for- land-walkers." He still spoke gently, and he was entirely open to hearing the selkie's explanation. " How did it become yours?"

Moire frowns at Krice, slowly shaking her head. "The ship. The people on it. They used the sea. Took from her. She takes back what is owed. The price was that ship, downed in a storm. It is what was owed to us. Now they seek to take it back. They cannot have it," the porcelain-skinned woman asserts, her raspy notes struggling with the common form of consonants.

Krice stared attentively at Moire and leaned forward over the parcel in his lap, resting his arms on his knees. Fingers interlocked, he displayed every aspect of an interested conversationalist, concerned for all parties involved in the current predicament. " What about this one?" He nodded to the wreck on which Moire sat. " The sea saw fit to spit it out. Will you take it back, too?"

Moire looks down to the ferry's skeletal remains, a slow swivel of her head eventually bringing the fathomless, black eyes to focus on the corpse of the captain through the shattered windows. "He has already paid; there is no longer a debt," the seal maiden explains, "And that means this is not ours." The opalescent-skinned female's lips press together in momentary consideration as the onyx-hued oculars swing back toward Krice. "It is as the goddess wishes."

Krice narrowed his eyes slightly as he studied Moire's behaviour, her story weaving its way through his mind. " This ship has nothing to do with -that- one," he said, indicating the vessel yet to be raised by the Rynvale-Cenril coalition. " Yet you - and others like you - are here." He glanced northeast across the ocean once more and concluded his reply with a philosophical, " If the sea truly wishes it, then She will stop the raising of that ship."

Moire smiles suddenly, the seaborn's face breaking into a bright expression, lighting like the sun through clouds. "So you think they do not," the selkie replies, "But they are related. Where they came from. Where they were going." A shrug is placed at the end of the statement, the gesture lingering with the seal maiden's shoulder pinned high. Her head cants to one side, an ear sidled against the curve of her shoulder, giving the aquatic woman the appearance of a young girl. "She cannot interfere in such things. It is up to her faithful. Her children. My people...to stop them. And they are angry," the monk's voice grinds out.

Krice tilted his head at a slight angle as he registered Moire's smile, an expression he hadn't been expecting, given their conversation. Her words, however, put that smile into perspective, and her promise to do the bidding of her goddess earned her a slightly harder look than he'd been giving her through this entire interaction. " Be careful. Land-walkers can be very dangerous. You might lose more brothers and sisters than is worth it." It wasn't a threat; merely a warning spoken out of genuine concern.

Moire gives the silver-haired man a slow, stately shake of her head. "We have already lost so many; what is a few more? Every day you land-walkers take our people with nets and boats. You have so much on land, yet you rob us of our resources and defile our sacred sites," the porcelain-skinned seaborn insists. "There is still time for diplomacy, but many of my kin are quickly losing hope."

Krice frowned. Clearly he was sympathetic toward Moire for the suffering she and her people had endured, but it wasn't up to him. " Not -all- of us take from the sea," he murmured, before speaking a little louder to announce his actual response. " It's not up to me. I don't make the decisions for the people who live on land. I may not be able to help you."

Moire mirrors Krice's frown with one of her own. "If you do not know, or have no influence, with those who are taking from us, then perhaps you can direct me toward someone who does," the selkie intones sadly. "But the ship, the one being brought up from the depths, it is causing a problem," she goes on, again gesturing toward the channel of water between Cenril and Rynvale.

Krice's frown remained but hardened in light of Moire's answer. When she gestured northwest, he looked that way, scanning the waters between Cenril and Rynvale. " I said that I -may- not be able to help you - not that I wouldn't try." Cue a wry smirk. " But you have to tell me... Why is raising that ship so terrible? If I don't give the land-walkers an explanation, they won't stop."

Moire looks over Krice for a long moment, the frown lingering on her youthful, pearlescent face. The seal maiden's large doe eyes narrow slightly at the swordsman, "It is sacred to us. Mm. Almost like a temple." The information is given hesitantly, reluctance hedging the selkie's raspy tones.

Krice offered a nod, showing that he understood Moire's words - and that he understood what she -didn't- say; her apprehension to give this land-walker too much. When he spoke next, it was in a tone that he hoped would placate her whilst he sought more information. " How long has it been down there?"

Moire again allows the conversation to lapse into silence while she studies Krice. The holy warrior licks her lips again, her lips pushed forward like a child with a peanut-butter sandwich. "Several generations," the marine-born femme replies, not specifying how long that is. Perhaps seaborn don't measure time the same as land-walkers.

Krice didn't ask Moire what she meant when using the phrase 'several generations', be it the generations of seaborn or land-walker, but the dip in his brow told of his contemplation over it. " Presumably long enough for the ocean to have fully engulfed it..." He mused, gaze drifting off Moire to idly watch light twist and concave on the surface of the water surrounding her. " Do you live there?" Asked Krice after a short time, returning his focus to the selkie's face.

Moire clasps her hands together, letting them come to rest in her lap. The weight of the entwined digits indents the inky swirl of hair already occupying her lap, causing a ripple of cobalt and white to refract along the arc of strands. "We do not live there, no. I, specifically, do not live there, though I do visit often," the monk replies as precisely as she is able.

Krice accepted the succinctness of Moire's answer and did not seek more information beyond what she gave. He sat in silence again, but it wasn't long before the light in has eyes changed as if a revelation had uncoiled in his mind. " Were there sea-creatures on the ship when it sank? Is it a resting place for beings like you?"

Moire nods at Krice, her gradually drying hair now rife with flyaway strands that float upon the constant breeze from the open waters. "There are seaborn on every ship," the selkie replies, star-flecked orbs again focusing upon the swordsman, "Generally speaking, of course." The selkie's eyes are torn away from the warrior, turning instead to probe the shallow depths below her feet. "I have to go." The statement is brief and sharp, though not meant to be. Without waiting for a reply, the seal maiden's posture pitches forward, and she dives once more beneath the surface of the water, promptly hiding herself beneath the aft deck.

Krice was ever attentive as Moire spoke, and therefore privy to her impending departure before she announced as much. It disappointed him, but he didn't try to stop her. Once the selkie was completely submerged, the silver-haired man left the broken deck of the ship to find sand beneath his feet once more. He spent a moment gazing out across the ocean and Her majestic waves before departing the beach to move northward, approaching the socks. Perhaps if he spent enough time there, he would overhear something of import.