Lapping ocean wavelets pulled at the shoreline’s fine sand, tumbling small pebbles the colour of slate and sticks of wood that had just escaped its grasp, back into the unfathomable depths that was this body of water’s gullet, the stain of its foam leaving a thin white line that traversed the entirety of the stretch, writhing forward and back as the ebb and flow of the calm waves decided to recede behind or transgress their previous position. Occasionally, such a line was dashed by one of the violent zephyrs that resided in such a location, spiraling downward to rocket through the heady white froth, often carrying some of it further away than the ocean had intended, where it slowly fizzled into nothingness upon sands not so easily held in the sea’s thrall, and eager to assert their own dominance over the small fraction of a power they had no resistance to, given to them by the power that was constantly their ruler, shifting their dunes from one place to another.

At other times, what the Coquette People called “the Path of Aoe Ganug”, was broken by strings of kelp, their shiny green flesh flashing in the unbridled rays of the sun as they drug the foam back toward the sea with them; or it was done by the sharp talons of the tengulls who cried the names of lost loves whispered to them at the autumn solstice with their human mouths, scavenging for the sea creatures misfortunate enough to be washed ashore, whose broken shells studded the shore like gems. Worst yet, the line was broken by the footfall of a person, as was found now.

Vana Huine walked beside the Path of Aoe Ganug that day for a purpose that many of her sisters considered to be fanciful, and yet others grave. Her steps were made with delicate purpose, the unclothed flesh meeting the damp beach’s surface as if clasping a lover’s hand, lifting again only with deliberation and the sensitive need for motion, which they only hoped that the sands could understand. The determination in her chillingly pale eyes accented moreso the lighter sea of violet than the starburst of amethyst that surrounded the slit of a pupil that resided as the centerpiece, their gaze following the path of the stain as it sloped upward before drifting back to a place more following in the trend of its path, only broken when her absent minded fanning thrust a curl of her mane upward.

What she looked for was what mattered. Not that her breathing matched the sway of the blood stained angel feathers she had fashioned into a fan, or that the train of her chemise had caught on a rock whence she had first entered the beach via the path from the mansion now miles behind her, the white silk having split enough so that the back of it was split in two up to the back of her knees, or that in her hurry, she had sheathed one of the small razor-fans strapped to her thigh backward and it had sliced a large hole through the front of her dress.

And when she saw what the result of her two hours of journey had brought her, her normally pale flesh blanched considerably, eyes shutting with effort, thin fingers snapping the feathered fan closed and clutching it between her hands. Atop the carefully laid pattern of shells and slivers of bone, right where the Path of Aoe Ganug intersected to tell her the divination she had spent a month preparing, was a furrowed footprint, the clear treads of a heavy boot, the sort that a fisherman or sailor would wear. When she had seen them earlier, further away from the water, she had assumed that it was one of her sisters who had taken the guise of a sailor and had decided to perhaps add an authentic taste of the sea to their clothing. But, now, the reality of the situation dawned upon Vana, as a Coquette never would tread upon the line of seafoam considered to be sacred to the King of the Sea; the beach had been trespassed upon, an offense that the commoners knew could mean a punishment as high as death should the feline women feel so severe.

And severity was a path well trod by the woman whom now raced down the empty stretch of beach, wet sand flying behind her in sprays, the teasing winds flowing with her, as if excited by the sudden movements of she who usually visited them in such a clam, introverted manner.

They carried on for a bit, stealing the elegant hat from the man who stood facing the sea’s hat, before realizing that they had left their compatriot behind, she having slowed her pace considerably, lithe legs shooting out in a walk that was nearly a jaunt but flowed as naturally as the wind over her skin. They brought to her the hat, right hand shooting outward to grasp it from their grasp and placing to atop her own head, fingering the plumage attached, the tail ends of her split dress flowing forward like the tails of scorpions, cracking with the unsettled nature of the gathered winds that soon departed.

“The fate of trespassers is death,” the mellow ringing of Vana’s words cut across the voice of the ocean that so held the man in thrall, followed by the sharp snap of the feathered fan opening, her delicate wrist cocked as if she would begin to fan herself, but never did. “Surely, such a fact was made known to you.”