Isla
They search for sea glass - smooth as she can get it, the Voice advised - by the light of the moon on a balmy evening in Torchline. The Miana Pool seemed like a good place to start, given the frequency of the tide, the way it sucks out and deposits treasures for explorers like the two of them to find. None of this explains why Isla is on Varus's back, her bare feet locked gently around his waist, her arms draped around his neck, but she doesn't feel like a reason needs to be justified.
"It says here," she murmurs, cheek to cheek with her fellow Ascended, "that if the torches that line the beaches of Torchline ever blow out, the islands will sink into the sea." There's a sunbleached (and maybe a bit damp) book open in her fingers, Isla clearly believing that a moonlight stroll is a good time to indulge in some light reading as well. "Was that the case three hundred years ago? Have they really been burning allt his time?"
"It says here," she murmurs, cheek to cheek with her fellow Ascended, "that if the torches that line the beaches of Torchline ever blow out, the islands will sink into the sea." There's a sunbleached (and maybe a bit damp) book open in her fingers, Isla clearly believing that a moonlight stroll is a good time to indulge in some light reading as well. "Was that the case three hundred years ago? Have they really been burning allt his time?"
we're gonna separate ourselves tonight
we're always running scared but holding knives
we're always running scared but holding knives
