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Acolyte | Lighthouse Keeper

He smells of distant rain and the sea air. There is a sort of knowing calm in his affect, as though nothing could surprise him anymore- a far cry from how he was when Tempest first pulled him from the heaving wake, half-drowned and wild with terror, screaming in a tongue which, upon reflection, Aeven confessed he did not know. Perhaps when the salt water filled his lungs, it left something else behind- something, quintessentially, of the storm, and the endless black depths it conspired with. He was bound to them now, coloured by them: the maelstrom and the roiling sea, smeared together like watercolours on a dripping canvas. He sighs, and lets the sand and foam wash between his feet. The rip curls possessively around him, but it is not strong enough to pull him under, and so it ebbs away sullenly.

There is a gale coming. He can feel it in his bones now.



aev・ven・ - west sea