Nerithea

endless blue, her presence as quiet and inevitable as the tide. Hair the color of deepwater midnight spilled around her shoulders, shifting with the wind like strands of kelp beneath a current. Her eyes, bleached white as seafoam, held no reflection—yet when they turned toward you, it felt as if the ocean itself had noticed your existence. Her skin bore the faint shimmer of salt, her steps leaving damp imprints on dry stone. The air around her carried the hush of waves in their resting hours, a calm so complete it seemed the world was holding its breath. But in the stillness there was weight—an unseen pull, like the deep calling to the shore. She did not need to speak to be known. She was the ebb and the flow, the gentlest swell and the most merciless breaker. The tide was hers, and so was the silence that followed its retreat.