Lir was human, until he drowned.
Destined to take back the freedom of a merfolk clan called the Halloran, reborn in the depths of the ocean as a half-man, half-Halloran entity, Lir is meant to be a savior. Yet, Lir only wants to be human again, beca...
Ivory blinks. Next to her finger, curled up in the sand, is an earring. The sunlight reflects against the jewel's golden glimmer. She gasps. She coddles it in her palm. There are symbols etched across the gem that hangs from twisted metals, like an apple ready to fall from a tree's branch. It definitely isn't hers, but... Ivory glances around the beach. It is still deserted of any other presence. Who else could it belong to?
Last night comes back to her in strange flashes. At first, it is only a feeling of calm that washes over her figure. Then, it is a voice. His voice.
Ivory brings her wrist before her face to make sure she hasn't dreamt the whole ordeal. As expected, nothing hurts, nothing bleeds, and all her scars have disappeared.
She attempts to pocket the earring, only to be reminded that she is lacking the clothes to do so.
Her head hangs low. She sighs. "Right... as if it would ever be that easy."
The waves come forth and soak her toes. She jerks away, yelps, and then rises to her feet. The air smells of salt and the sands that have been heated under the sun's afternoon light.
As much as Ivory would enjoy celebrating being alive, she's aware that overcoming her injuries is only the start of her troubles. Marching into the city would get her charged with indecency in her current attire, and stealing is also out of the question. The vendors in the markets are good people, it would not be right. Still... She wonders what happened to the man that rescued her last night.
The weight of his earring feels heavy between her fingertips. If he truly is royalty, then Ivory has no doubt it belongs to him. For now, she'll hold onto it, until they run into each other again.
With one step, then two, and a hundred more, Ivory wanders the shore. It doesn't come as a surprise to her that the Prince is nowhere in sight, though she admits to her disappointment in being unable to find anything that could be of use to her. There are seashells. More sand. Marks from a crab. Nothing else.
She makes it to the ruins of an old bridge. An unusual sound catches her attention.
Atop the ancient wood, a tiny crow squawks and flaps its wings, but to no avail, for the effort barely earns him more than a slightly, elongated jump.
Ivory approaches the bird with caution. "Hey, there," she whispers. Her voice is soft as she holds out her palm. "Are your parents not with you?"
The crow ceases his crying and observes her with a curious tilt of his head.
He skips towards her, apparently still oblivious to the menace of humankind, due to his young age.
Part of Ivory isn't quite sure touching the bird is the best idea. She has heard stories which incline her to believe the crow may be rejected by his family, should her scent cover his lovely, dark feathers.
She steps away, but trips in the process and falls to her knees. As much as Ivory tries to avoid the cheeky bird, it is too late. He has jumped onto her shoulder, and nuzzled his head against her hair.
"All right," she mumbles. "Fine." She scratches the bird's chin, who cackles with joy. "You can come with me for now. But I'll take you back in a couple hours, okay? I wouldn't want your parents to think you've gone missing."
The crow seems to nod in acknowledgement, as if he understands her, and Ivory cannot help the chuckle that escapes her lips. "You're very polite," she tells the bird. "Even more so than some humans I used to know."
He nudges her jaw again.
"Yes, yes, I know. I promise we'll get you home in no time."
After searching the remaining part of the shore and coming back empty-handed—and failing to finding an eventual nest she could have put the crow in—Ivory figures it wouldn't hurt to take a peek at the garbage that people throw out before their houses. Technically, the idea isn't a legal one, though she supposes it is better than outright stealing—at least she'll be sure every item is unwanted in the eyes of its previous owner.
"You must have been lonely," she whispers to the crow, who has settled in the crook of her shoulder and fallen asleep.
The first cottage Ivory passes is filled with the laughter of children and the cry of a mother who scolds them for running too fast. It seems lively. Ivory envies their peace. She lingers in front of the house for a couple seconds too long, before she moves on with a shake of her head. No, this one won't do, she concludes. It is filled with many a people, she would instantly be caught.
She needs somewhere abandoned, or close to that. Perhaps the home of an old woman or man, a blind soul, or one robbed of the legs they could use to chase after her should something go wrong.
It takes passing a good forty homes until she finds one that is truly falling apart. The place is completely run down and filled with rubble. It reminds her of a basement where the brothel's men took her to beat a lesson into her bones when she was ten.
A drop of sweat streams down her back and traces the curve of her spine. Ivory swallows down the tightness in her throat. She forces herself to think of something else. To focus, on the task at hand. The softness of the small crow's feathers, still pressed against her jaw.
She scours the place, though finds nothing that could be of use without drawing attention to herself as a suspicious figure. Eventually, Ivory tries the last room, a kitchen that barely looks like a kitchen anymore.
There are curtains which were once white, yet are now gray, and peppered in large pieces of dust. In the middle of the room stands a table where a butter knife sits atop its rotting wood. The thought of being in contact for more than a second with these things is rather unappealing, however, there's nothing better around, and using the curtain as a skirt would at least allow her to enter the city. Granted, Ivory may get a few double takes, but it's better than being instantly arrested.
She coughs as she tugs it downward. The crow squawks in protest, though it eventually falls silent again.
Without wasting any further time, Ivory grabs the rusted knife and begins her walk back to the shore. If she is lucky, she'll be able to wash the curtain in the sea, dry it out, then find a place to stay that isn't so deserted before the sun comes down.
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