-some people are a breath of fresh air, so to speak. One might say the same, for Dominique. Though, to be more accurate, she's a breath of sea air, the tang of brine and ocean winds accompanying her, wherever she may roam. There's the sharp snap of sails in her every hoofstep, and the cry of gulls in her bubbling laughter. One look into this young Satyress' eyes, and a body finds themself instantly adrift, rocked by sunlit waves that beat against the shore of her long, dark lashes. Her voile is simple: black, flowing coulottes slit and laced up the sides with lengths of handspun twine; a basic top of cotton batik dyed in deepwater shades, bereft of sleeves and left unbuttoned; and dozens of baubles and jewels, shells and beads draped about her slender neck, silk scarves in layers of stolen sunset wrapped about trim waist. Her hair is plaited with seaweed, and more of that homespun twine, and shimmers like a dappling of light upon rolling waters. The flowing shag of hair upon her legs echos this motif, long feathers brushed proudly out over slim hocks. At her waist often hangs a fencing sabre with a handguard of pearl and gold fashioned in the delicate curve of a scallop shell-