Solira: The Ocean: all Solirans ;; nestled in the safety of chaos' bosom

She thinks fondly of her previous lover; the strange way the rot and decay complimented the bulk and scarred flesh of his carcass—the way the salt water stank within the mixture of his corpse bathed breath. She romanticizes their first meetings within the darkness of Desreal, the strange promises made within the umbra and twilight (that promise had a name; Breigna). And yet she longs strangely in her memory, hopelessly stranded in the thought of him; Ozymandias—his name she whispers but once when she feels him vanish from her precious earth. She thinks fondly from the safety of her darkness and her glade; hidden within the earthy forest creepers and trees deep where no others treads (this way none could see the strange mare in what would seem to be mourning). Yet alas, she remembers her promise, and so without thought or great debate she walks towards the vine covered trees and clover bathed paths where the scent of salt water is not far off.

She finds herself wandering in old and unfamiliar hoof prints, following steps of an unknown traveler downwards the strange white strand of beach. She is unamused by the footprints which follow in her wake; nor is she unamused by her strange companion who flitters amidst the waters edge just to her side. The thing is strange, a scale and feather made lizard of sorts, whose claws leave jagged marks within the sand and whose jaws snap and bite at unsuspecting bait fish near the shores edge. Swift Gaia turns her head and glances over at the thing, whistling sharply and tensing her muscles as the voracious thing scuttles to her side. It makes noises most strange, clicks and sounds like a machine—but the creature does not go unheard. For wily Gaia snaps her jaws and speaks to it in an unfamiliar language.

She remembers her first venture to this place, the incited rally of her lovers election. She remembers the frequency of her verbal assaults and the unfortunate turn out, yet she does not dwell for long… for she gazes upon them and their leaderless dilemma. She does not think it, does not react a certain way to it; instead she moves on, the mares companion eagerly chirping and drifting aside her in bursts and scuttles whilst snapping at Terns, Gulls, and the Jaeger birds. The mares body shifts and changes as she walks upon the land, her hooves change first into black quartz, her flesh changed to hardened dirt and bark, and her mane and tail made into vines and hanging nettles; flowered and strange. She grows in size, standing nearly 33 hands tall and carrying the heavy scent of wood and forest.

At the side the much smaller lizard beast leaps and climbs, digging into and scampering up upon her back. Its body rests, and she cannot help but muse; her breath and salvia dripping with intoxicating poisons and chemicals. She glances back at the foot prints, her eyes glimpsing across the beach as she approaches them. They will know her; she remembers and thinks; they will remember the abrasive voice of angered nature and it’s bestial wrath. Those who know will react angrily, but alas—she is here Solira, to stay.

“Come children,” she speaks, her body morphing again as they come. She reveals to them her truest form, storm grey with whitened patches upon her body: inky black mane and tail—and of course the one side bald face. Her mismatched eyes are careless, the creature once upon her back leaps to her side. Her voice is grated with an involuntary asperity, and an unfamiliar accent, “gather around and speak, Mother has come to stay.” She is ancient, and her laughter mocking; come then children—The Primordium calls.