Distantly, past beach breakers, onto vast tracts of clear-lit ocean tide spanning back until it hazed into the horizon, a whale fluke, thirty meters wide attached down to an unseen monster rolling by in the coral ravines, rose up high and slapped onto frothy crests and troughs. Waves came apart as they were blitzed into sonic drizzle, rendered into flattened mist. All attending winced slightly; thunder rolls cracked up along the beach, produced by the fluke-wallop crashing across the waters. Seroth peered out, watching the tale rise like a leafless cedar before sliding below mechanical waters. Some Ardans watching up the beach round palm copses and caseya bushes cheered. A good sign, one of the few proper omens considered locally as a reliable sign that whatever forces governing the tides approved of their union.
All listened as together, Rosa and her beau quietly lit into their exchanging duet. When learning that vows were exchanged in lieu of music, all in attendance several weeks prior at the island Kee's pumice-laden hut vocally, uproariously objected. Wedding without song?? Perplexed, some length of explanation was involved. Succinctly, music and lyricism were day by hour habits that accomplished everything from stemming boredom, provoking luck, communicating, to rites of ceremony minor, major, and all between. It went that in an unnamed age, every beach ran red from those devoured by monsters prowling the sand-bars, slaying Sendan and Indadh without distinction. A woman rent by grief cursed them with a terrible dirge. The beasts fell ill, were slain, or fell swallowed up by innumerable calamity's.
Song held power, they concluded. If Rosa Mazhar and Seroth Ur-Rahn wished for any degree of blessing upon their union, they would sing and mean it. In spite of his throaty croak, Seroth struck his notes and opened his throat wide. They'd almost argued over their choice of a capella. Rosa came up trumps. Now he committed to the next bar of limerick, holding her hands in a clam-vice. Chuckles rose at his unpracticed vocal gymnastics, while though his vision tunneled until brown eyes stroked with hazel and jade locked up at him. He nearly dropped the psychopomp. Hear and now vaulted into memory: They met on a cold space station freezing with poorly installed insulation along the outer observation corridors, kissing turbidly, hands clenched in haughty poses, pressing in and telling one another they must stop.
Their song ended on a cadence note. Next, custom dictated a kiss, before throwing their psycho-pomps and all their invested secrets and worries out into the surf. First, the kiss. Rough hands calloused and imbedded with scar-lines running from knuckle onto the palm took Rosa Mazhar with infinite gentility by her jaw. Lips parted, breathless, then seared together in a perfect meld.
[member="Rosa Gunn"] @Everyone
