She was soaked. Water dripped off her like she was some malfunctioning shower hose, draining into the sand in front of her as she stepped out of the tide. It was in her mouth, seeping between her teeth if she lifted her lips. The salt burned at her tongue. She could feel the granules against her gums, grating as she spit the remnants out.
Calypso wasn't a dog of long fur. Her blonde coat was short and without layers; if she were fluffier, she'd be swimming in the water that clung to her pelt minutes after leaving the sea. But still, it clung to her and dripped, dripped, dripped as she dragged herself further up the shore. For the first time in a long, long time, Calypso opened her porcelian maw and cursed, "Fucking ocean."
It was so very uncharacteristic of the femme. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and she had just been scared off the boardwalk back from Haven Island by a crocodile. A crocodile. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation was still registering in her brain. There was something tense in her chest. Frustration. Comical frustration, at the fact that she'd fled a desert lacking so extremely in hydration, only a single oasis in their whole territory, only to find herself on Tropical territory with an abundance of the stuff, hallucinating nightmarish memories, slipping off boardwalks and getting chased by crocodiles.
And so, bitter, she returned to the boardwalk. She sat at the edge, a luminous statue of a dog, and peered into the water where she watched the thing still swim in circles, no doubt salivating at the sight of her. There was an imprint of her figure in the dry wood beneath her, dampening by the second. She recognized that it was beyond the most petty thing she'd ever done, but she needed an outlet for the built up negativity, and at least if some newcomer were to walk this way towards their tragic fate of jungle juice and emotion, she could step in front of them and quickly send them the opposite direction.
Calypso wasn't a dog of long fur. Her blonde coat was short and without layers; if she were fluffier, she'd be swimming in the water that clung to her pelt minutes after leaving the sea. But still, it clung to her and dripped, dripped, dripped as she dragged herself further up the shore. For the first time in a long, long time, Calypso opened her porcelian maw and cursed, "Fucking ocean."
It was so very uncharacteristic of the femme. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and she had just been scared off the boardwalk back from Haven Island by a crocodile. A crocodile. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation was still registering in her brain. There was something tense in her chest. Frustration. Comical frustration, at the fact that she'd fled a desert lacking so extremely in hydration, only a single oasis in their whole territory, only to find herself on Tropical territory with an abundance of the stuff, hallucinating nightmarish memories, slipping off boardwalks and getting chased by crocodiles.
And so, bitter, she returned to the boardwalk. She sat at the edge, a luminous statue of a dog, and peered into the water where she watched the thing still swim in circles, no doubt salivating at the sight of her. There was an imprint of her figure in the dry wood beneath her, dampening by the second. She recognized that it was beyond the most petty thing she'd ever done, but she needed an outlet for the built up negativity, and at least if some newcomer were to walk this way towards their tragic fate of jungle juice and emotion, she could step in front of them and quickly send them the opposite direction.
[glow=black,2,300]*:・゚ BURY ME AND I'LL BE BORN AGAIN[glow=black,2,300]
[glow=black,2,300][b][i]I WALK IN GODLY FORM[/glow]
[glow=black,2,300][b][i]AMONGST THE MORTAL MEN [/glow]
[align=center][i]
[glow=black,2,300][b][i]I WALK IN GODLY FORM[/glow]
[glow=black,2,300][b][i]AMONGST THE MORTAL MEN [/glow]