You look down upon the Hatching Sands and see:
The gently convex floor is hardly visible thanks to its filling of deep black sand, nonetheless forming a bowl in which a clutch of eggs can harden in safety and warmth. Heated by the thermal energy of the dormant volcano, the sands are always opressively hot - even through boots, the sand seers and bakes, small rushes of air from above and through from the bowl making little difference. A large outcropping of stone becomes an island within this sea of sand, the resting place of a queen who guards her clutch; a smaller platform of wood is set aside for the queen's rider.
Centuries of eggshells scatter the dark sands, broken down to but pieces of colour amid the darkness. A staircase rises towards the far end of the sands, almost out of view, whilst a small passage leads in the general direction of the weyrling barracks.
Championing Perdition Egg
Half of this colossal ovoid is the thing of nightmares, as blackened and wretched as the abyss itself. Pandemonium reigns across its shell - infernos of hell-fire rake great torrents and gouts upon its jagged ebony surface, while the depths of pits and chasms are so stygian in nature that not even the brightest light of Rukbat can pierce them. The only hint of redemption can be found on the far side of the egg, where bright, iridescent white eggshell shines amidst the miasma of magma and brimstone. In its purity, it seems to represent all that is good and right in this world… Yet it also seems to belong in that hell, taunting, provoking, projecting the idea that everything you know is wrong.
The Devil's Advocate stirs in a cloud of ash and soot, a great, smug beast coming awake in your mind. Dust feels like it's choking up your lungs for a moment, stealing your words while the presense makes itself comfortable, lounging in your head like it owns the place. So, this is you… The other mind assesses for a long moment and then decides to be unimpressed. Let's get started then. Lazily flickering through your memories as though they were stacked in a neat file folder, the Advocate pulls up one, then two, comparing them against one another. Curiouser and curiouser, you get the distinct feeling of being /judged/, though whether it's for the better or the worse, it's hard to tell.
The Devil's Advocate begins pacing like a canine at the end of its leash. It might not believe in everything it's throwing at you, but suddenly there's a barrage of memories, none staying longer than a second, but each coming with its own set of emotions. Failure. Misery. Hurt. Injustice. Again and again, they repeat, taking seemingly every bad moment you've ever had and making you revisit again. The hellfire racing up the egg's shell suddenly manifests, exploding outwards in a last, emphatic statement: Everything you know is /WRONG/! Seething, the egg's mind seems to realize what it's done and takes slow, deep breaths, its volcanic explosion slowly fading away now that its energy is spent. Blue sky peeks tentatively through the ashy cloud, along with a single ray of sunlight that, somehow, seems to illuminate everything that your memories have left to offer. Peace. Love. Joy. Celebration. Kindness. The foreign mind's more vicious half stirs sullenly, but even it has to admit that there's usually some good to take with the bad… but it's up to you to find it for yourself - it can only advocate for the devil. Exhausted now, though, the egg falls away, perhaps to slumber and recuperate for the next unsuspecting soul to touch its jagged surface.
The Devil's Advocate begins pacing like a canine at the end of its leash. It might not believe in everything it's throwing at you, but suddenly there's a barrage of memories, none staying longer than a second, but each coming with its own set of emotions. Failure. Misery. Hurt. Injustice. Again and again, they repeat, taking seemingly every bad moment you've ever had and making you revisit again. The hellfire racing up the egg's shell suddenly manifests, exploding outwards in a last, emphatic statement: Everything you know is /WRONG/! Seething, the egg's mind seems to realize what it's done and takes slow, deep breaths, its volcanic explosion slowly fading away now that its energy is spent. Blue sky peeks tentatively through the ashy cloud, along with a single ray of sunlight that, somehow, seems to illuminate everything that your memories have left to offer. Peace. Love. Joy. Celebration. Kindness. The foreign mind's more vicious half stirs sullenly, but even it has to admit that there's usually some good to take with the bad… but it's up to you to find it for yourself - it can only advocate for the devil. Exhausted now, though, the egg falls away, perhaps to slumber and recuperate for the next unsuspecting soul to touch its jagged surface.
Flight of the Porcine Egg
There is nothing small or dainty about /this/ egg, so round and pudgy it looks more like some fat pastry dumped on the hatching sands than anything remotely egglike. Except it's totally ginormous, and vaguely tapered at one end, the only concession the thing seems to make in regards to its true nature. A kind of pale, beigeish pink covers most of it, darker squiggles creating the impression of folds or wrinkles across a bulbous shape which all but hogs the surface area. Faint, stiff lines in a yellower hue brush around this epic blob of coloration, like stiff bristles or hair, though to the touch it's utterly smooth. Where the egg narrows, there's a brighter splotch of pink with two dark spots at its center, and further down, where the shell is touched by soft shades of cream and lilac, there's a feathering of white all blurred and whispy, as if this delicate patterning were almost too faint, too out of place, to be true.
Dare To Dream is quiet. At first, at any rate. There is the faint flutter of avian wings, a tickling of a light breeze upon your face, then gently, the brief brush of what might be feathers, or just soft hair drifting on a breath of fresh air. And.. it soon starts to smell rather rancid, actually. Is that.. rotting tubers? Old mouldy vegetables? And someone has /definitely/ been at the beans. Whew! And it only gets stronger, the wind on your face hot and fetid, accompanied by a rather gag-worthy 'prRRrPP-poot!' sound. EW. It's not long before the stench overwhelms you, mind and body, something huge and invasive prodding at all your surface thoughts with utter disregard for the consequences. Your stomach begins to churn, and just as your eyes start to water from the queasyfying sensation, it's suddenly gone. As quick as it came, something zooming past your subconscious, leaving you gasping for freedom from its brief, reckless visit. Did that awfulness /really/ just happen? And what was that stink all about? A warning, perhaps. Or a bad joke.
Dare To Dream is.. rather less quiet this time around, the sounds of what might be an animal, all squealy and shrill, accosting your ears, along with the vaguely sick sensation of sinking into thick mud. The sand beneath your feet suddenly turns to inescapable goo, and you're being sucked down into the quagmire, the world pulled away in muddy darkness. You can't breathe. You can't see. You can't sme- no wait. This helpless, hopeless feeling … it has an odd perfume to it. And it smells like roses. Huh. And all the while, /something/ is sitting on your shoulder, pondering you curiously. Or is it on your head? No wait, it's behind you! But before you've the chance to turn around, it's gone in a flutter, and you're suddenly back where you started, on the hot black sands and breathable air.
Dare To Dream isn't playing games no more. This is serious business here, and- oh, heck. There goes the hatching cavern. All the other eggs and your fellow candidates are suddenly painted in gaudy colors and squiggly outlines, and some of them have bovine heads. And tails. And is that one AWLM over there growing horns? Or maybe that's just a /really/ enthusiastic mustache. Too fast for you to keep track of, and while you're distracted by the myriad sights of the world gone mad, there's a rushing of air, and the damp whisper of clouds, just at the back of your mind. And something is peering at you, flipping through the old memories and throwing up random bits of them for your (or rather, its) amusement. Familiar faces are spread across the ceiling, and old hurts and shames are buried in the nearby sands, for everyone to dig in. But no, it's not truly laughing at you. There's an all too innocent need to /know/, to believe in /something/, a longing deep down that's shared, however briefly. And then, once more, it's gone. And the world returns to normal, and just a little bit duller for it, perhaps.
Foolishly Ironic Egg
Gasp. Could it be? Perfectly ovicular, if lacking in regularity, is a solid golden egg! From a distance, this egg is only a few shades warmer than the sun's glow, it still cuts an impressive figure against the black sands, visibly larger than most of its compatriots. Asperous valleys and gorges disfigure an otherwise faultless eggshell, leaving isometric dents and uneven ridges that can be felt with the fingertips. Closer consideration might reveal veins of silvery-grey and brown impurities, tarnishing the egg's otherwise brassy tones with a gritty iron cast. Hmm, on second thought, it's not very 'golden' at all, is it? Something is clearly amiss, so perhaps this egg isn't exactly what meets the eye.
Persnickety Pomposity is flashy, is gaudy, is all full of itself. Colors wild and vibrant stream forth in endless array, while somewhere beyond lurks greatness, lurks epically bigness, lurks… whoops, did someone accidentally turn off the lights? No wait, what's that piddly, wiggly little spot in all the spilled color and paper-thin splashes of vibrance.. is that /all/ that lurks behind the flash? That tiny, insignificant thing? There's the faraway tinkle of shattering glass, and then, it all falls away into stillness.
Persnickety Pomposity is big! No, really! Just look at the lights, man. The colors! Before was just.. just a TEST. Seriously, look at all your own faults before you judge! They're being shown to you, one after another, anyway. A constant stream of criticism, from a critic that barely understands the whys and wherefors of anything. Bit neverming THAT. Isn't this impressive? Isn't this just HUGE? Yes? No? Well who asked anyway! And it storms off in a huff of glitter and spilled colors, all fading away to leave you back where you started.
Persnickety Pomposity comes on strong, still trying too hard, and then stops finally, all the flash and all the gaudy brightness smudging together into something that is just downright /dingy/. The whole world wobbles into blurred smudges and rough outlines, one thing fading into another while something trads amongst old memories, mixing and mangling them all up in a jumble till the present is all tangled with the past, and everything's just plain confused. Because this? All of this /stuff/ out there? Is confusing. Better to wow and run away, right? No? Maybe? Fleeting as frost in the sun, all of it vanishes soon enough, settling into stubborn, contemplative silence.
Highway to Hell Egg
This lustrous egg's seductive surface is full of swingin' excitement and sparkle. A ritzy splash of white-beaded satin flickers with a motion of its own, moving in sharp contrast to the blaze of spotted lights in the background. These candescent orbs seem to flash like a hologram in the light from overhead, pinpricks of glitter turned into bright, titillating stars. It's definitely the bee's knees of the clutch in all of its swanky fashion— that is, until those sparks of light shift from a welcoming shimmer at the top into an eye-burning conflagration of flames at the bottom. Spicy tones ignite and meld into a whirlwind of colors, black asphalt stained with splashes of blood and streaks of hot-cherry roadster chrome. Heading nowhere but down, and going fast, this ovoid turns from the glitzy glamor of the 20's to a nightmare of hellish proportions in sixty seconds flat.
Scintillating Sinner starts off as a smooth sweet seductive sound that slips its way secretly into your mind. It's hard to know when it starts out— it is just suddenly /there/, rocking you gently with its dulcet rhythm. Finger-snapping catchy, lulling you into its false security, these smooth tunes begin twisting into something more sinister. There's a flash at the edge of your vision— or was it in your mind?— then several more, and that strange presence is invading even further in to fill your senses with a gleeful pride of being in the spotlight. Time to shine, baby.
Scintillating Sinner really steps up its music into a jazzy frenzy, letting loose with a rush of sequins and blazing lights. Laughter dances just in the distance as the music picks up the pace even more, the party that's just starting already beginning to rage out of control. Overwhelming, constricting, and yet pulling you right into the fray— right into the middle of all the debauchery. More, more, more. Why have it end when there's still so much fun to be had?
Scintillating Sinner spins you around so that you may even imagine yourself swinging to the music even though you are standing still. There's no way to let go now until it is all over— horns blaring out a catchy tune, laughter, and above it all the panicked screams of everything gone wrong. From the edge of your twirling mind comes heat, and a more menacing laughter, as the fun has finally turned into a chaotic hell too late to pull away from now— more, more and down you go! Burning from all sides until the whole presence sucks itself away from your mind, down a hole and gone. Silence.
It Takes Two to Tango Egg
Settled upon the black sands, this little egg is anything but peaceful. Its shell is marked by hues so vivid, they practically *pop* right off the smooth, curved surface, loud colors whirling in an epic dance of dominance over a floor of ever-shifting darkness. Deep purples and brilliant, eye-searing yellows clash together, fighting for the upper hand across the majority, while here and there poigniant streaks of one jab into sections of the other, ruthless in their furious attempts to overwhelm or conquer. Bright and bold, there is no room for compromise it seems, no lackluster greys or soft blurring where the two shades meet. Instead, there is only firm resolve, absolute lines careening this way and then another, swirling round and round but apparently never meeting on any common ground.
Interesting Times gets this party started! There's a flash of bright, brilliant light and a..click? No wait, that's just the tap-tap of hard shoes on a shiny wooden floor. Or is that the clatter of falling pans in the kitchens? Whatever it is, it's only the background noise, because front and center is YOU. Right in the spotlight, and under scrutiny, all those delicious little secrets ripe for the picking, and is there ever a harvest going on. You're all that's being talked about - you, you yoouuu - but it ain't all good stuff. Oh no, juicy gossip, embarrassing snippets, heck, with all that whispering behind your back, it's a wonder you don't feel your shirt fluttering around from it. Or maybe you do. It's a whirlwind tour right through the subconscious and into places deep and personal, all those things you'd rather not talk about dragged into the light and JUDGED. Too bad you can't quite hear the opinions, but as your worst moments are flashing before your eyes, you get the definite sense of /somebody/ snarking on about this or that. Though whatever point they're trying to make, its all suddenly gone in a rush of strobe lights and falling glitter.
Interesting Times doesn't waste a second. The moment your hand so much as brushes the shell, it's all IN YOUR FACE with pointed jabs of searing light and strange demands. The who, what, where, and whys are just the start of it, diving right through whatever's on the surface to interrogate all those hidden motives you keep locked up inside. Or maybe it just /thinks/ you do. Is that an accusation? It might be. There's a lot more jabbing at the sensitive bits this time around, heedless of what's being dredged up, old hurts tossed aside like so much dirty laundry, with about as much consideration for them as stinky socks. Suspicion runs rampant, all your intentions being questioned and re-questioned. Trust? What's /that/? There's definitely none of it here, only endless probing and a nagging urge to throw something. Thankfully, as sudden as the intrusion was, it goes, shoving all it's learned of you away in one haughty huff.
Interesting Times bombards you with questions! You're back! Hey! Clearly, there's more to all of this. And possibly to you. There's one big bright wash of light, out-shining everything, the sands, the eggs, even the heat. But then some random thing gets tugged up, some little incident or other, flashing by too fast to truly comprehend, and suddenly - BOOM! - you're in hot water! And you're being given the cold shoulder, left to stew for awhile in the steam, suffocating and scalding, while above your head something else whizzes by. Or is that you, speeding along like a mad storm-tossed trundlebug, battered by answers to questions no one's asked, and nagged to the ends of Pern by the feeling something's not been done. You.. left the oven on, didn't you? No, wait, it's definitely something else. A deep and dark frustration, an ache soothed only in this conflict, because whether or not you're totally innocent in all this chaos, you're definitely getting blamed! Better to cut and run, really, but one last clinging spark explodes, and you're reeling out of control before it all, suddenly, just ends.
Radiance of Daybreak Egg
An effervescent shimmer of pastels, illumined and heartfelt, grace the smooth surface of this egg. Delicate golden clouds spirit across the shell's apex, daubed and streaked in turn, as though crafted by a painter's loving hand. The surface beneath is a smooth gradient of pale ambers fading with tones of apricot, coral, and whisping lavender. An almost ethereal shade of azure clings to the horizon, the last vestiges of night fighting valiantly, if ineffectually, against the inevitable coming of the dawn. Mountain peaks rise along the egg's base like cold, dark icebergs, untouched by the gleaming crest of a newly-rising sun… but it is only a matter of time before they, too, rise and shine to greet the morn.
Morning Glory reaches out to meet your presence with its own, slow and langorous as feline's first stretch. Dawn's pale colors peek over the horizon of your mind's eye, lending warmth to a mental landscape that you never realized was so dark before. Timid at first, an avian-like trill starts an easy, repetitive song. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three-three! Come, come, out of your darkness!, it beckons, seeming to encourage you to sing along. Now is not a time for sadness, nor reticence - leave that to the night. Now is a time of new beginnings! Rise and shine!
Morning Glory veritably radiates, pleased to be rising to greet the dawning of a new mind. That single early bird sound is quickly joined by others in a cheery cacophony, spreading quick as wildfire. Fuchsia and saffron colors blossom in the sky sure as any flower, chasing away the dismal greys and smoky blues clinging to your thoughts, transforming the land in your mind into something soft and sublime. Out of the depths, pleasant memories are drawn, focusing on moments when a single gesture or a few spoken words changed the tides. These are considered thoughtfully, perused as over a cup of klah, and then laid to rest with a sense of satisfaction. See? Just as with the avian's song, it only takes one voice to change everything.
Morning Glory finally awakens in full with a burst of light, illuminating everything you have to offer this time, both good and bad. All thoughts are shone upon equally by something as eternal as the rising of the sun - mistakes are brushed off like a morning mist, past errors ferreting away with the nocturnal denizens, choosing to take their own leave. Instead, strong columns shaped like trees stand firm, life decisions made and stuck by through thick and thin. They take nourishment from this enthusiastic glow, become invigorated, and are urged to prosper. The world of your mind comes alive in the same way, unfolding with this new, alien attention, this breath of fresh morning air. This… all of this could be your future, the other mind seems to offer. All of this and more, just think about it! After a few warm moments, the sun's presence starts to fade back into its shell, letting you take up its task for yourself. All you have to do is rise up, let your light shine, and seize the day!
Secret Source of Shame Egg
The creep of a barely-opened door casts a shadow of maliced doubt over the cobwebbed outline traced in gruesome bone-white. The mantle, a hazy darkness which enshrouds this egg with enigma and mystery, encompasses all in an eidolon of color, dusk's greyscale falling over the small ovoid as if it is soon misplaced, soon forgotten. The tracery of truth lies within, a slumped figure, barely discernable for the dust and the dirt: but truth it is, disguised or revealed, and disguised it shall sit… for now.
Hidden Secrets is nothing at this moment. Nothing at all, really. Why keep looking and feeling around? Nothings here. Nope. Nothing at all. That creepy sound of a door inching open was totally just the wind. The wind which does and can exist in all this nothing. Darkness abounds, yes, but at least not all is silent and perhaps, perhaps, there is a glimmer of light. Four long lines, two longer than the others. Making what looks to be a rectangle. Would this, perhaps, be the door from earlier that was heard opening? SLAM! Too late to know for sure, for it is already closed and only the echoing sound of what might be maniacal, muffled by solid wood remains.
Hidden Secrets is no longer nothing. But something. A being is present, somewhere amid the dark. Those four lines have returned, the creaking noise of moving wood is back. An eerie feeling settles itself over our chest. Pushing and pushing, uncomfortable pressure of someone watching you, judging you, wondering what you know. The lights grow larger as the door obviously opens more. Laughter comes back, horrifying in it's endless echoes. A mix between girlish glee and terrorized torture, that which makes the noise unsure of which emotion to evoke. That pushing on your chest goes deeper, grabs hold of your very core and gives a heart-stopping /squeeze/! Pressure becomes to much! Lights start flashing behind your eyes! Withdraw now or else! Tighter and tighter. Breathing becomes harder… each gasp of air is a miracle in and of itself. The door slams shut again! The secret is too much for you to know.
Hidden Secrets hides no more. The sound of a door opening is all you hear, each note of the wood scrapping against the floor a constant reminder of what you do not know. The fear of the past no longer holds any control over you, instead, there is a distinct feeling of resignation in the air. That which dwells inside has given up, has realized the true competitor in this thing called life. The door is open. The noises cease. All it takes to know is it turn around and embrace what lays in front of you. Turning. Turning. Almost there. The truth is there, right in front of you. All that's left is to lift your eyes and… SLAM! …all is nothing once more. No lights. No door. No laughing, nothing. Silence fills your soul, silence and the distinct feeling that perhaps… perhaps you are not yet prepared to know the truth.
Shiny Pocket Lint Egg
From a distance, the shell of this egg appears to puff and pucker, like a great big cloud, fat with rain. The colouration is about as dismal, shades of grey only, dark and gloomy for the most part. Winding across the surface, disappearing in one crevice and emerging in another, is a solitary thread of shining silver, a single bright streak cutting through the darkness.
Thunder and Lightning sound, way off in the distance, but right here there's just rain. Buckets and buckets of gloomy grey rain, just pouring down. The storm straddles a fine line between dreary and damp, and refreshingly cool. Slowly, a mental presence emerges, plodding through the downpour. A distinct wave of astonishment cuts through the rain, as though the mind is shocked that anyone was touching /its/ egg. The clouds part slightly, and a ray of sunshine beams through. Things are looking up, yes they are. A feeling is tugged at, your reaction to being searched. It is turned over, prodded, and then clumsily returned, with a query. The mind wishes to know more about this event, please share.
Thunder and Lightning come ever closer, glorious flashes of light turning everything whiter than a candidate's robe, then gone as quickly as they struck, and deep barrel rolls of thunder resounding in the darkness between flashes. Then, silence. A long thoughtful pause. It feels as though you are being keenly observed, you can almost hear footsteps pacing around you, a quiet crunch crunch crunch of sand beneath toes. There's curiosity there, bucket loads of it, more plentiful than the rain of before. You are being sized up, considered. A memory is tugged at, picked at random, but one of disappointment, or loss. A terrible sadness washes over you, a sadness not your own, as the mind in the egg wallows in that memory.
Thunder and Lightning tremble in the darkness, it seems that there is much more of the deep booming thunder now than the bright flashes of light. The trembling mind seizes on a happy memory, a time when everything went well, clinging to it for dear life. THIS! There must be more of these! The thunder grows quieter, and the lightning steps it up a bit, flashing near constantly the more cheerful the mind grows, making it difficult to focus on anything. Suddenly, there is a pang of guilt, and the touch withdraws, apologetically. Hopefully it was not /too/ loud, or blinding.
Smorgasbord Feast Egg
A swirling mass of shapes can be seen on the egg's shell, and closer examination reveals the shapes to be various foodstuffs of all kinds. Wherry-meat, vegetables, all kinds of breads…even things that normal people probably wouldn't eat can be seen among all the edibles. They all seem to spiral about a dark object in the center. A glint of metal reflection can be seen on this mysterious epicenter as some of the food falls into this void, only to be replaced by an equally…unique…bit of food somewhere else on this interesting shell.
A rock-hard bucket rolls out of the darkness. It appears filled to the brim with food, and yet the sense that it can hold infinitely more is overwhelming. Aromas and images of even more food creep into the back of your mind, everything from sweet confections to lovely baked goods to strange drinks from all over. All of these images work their way towards the heavy bucket, getting drawn towards it. The bucket fills but again, it still appears to want more. Stranger and stranger dishes appear. Some spicy, some large in size, and some downright weird. A presence unseen but still surrounding the bucket reaches out…towards your direction! What is that? Are you food? Food is good! You are food! The presence begins to come closer, eternally hungry…
A rock-hard bucket envelops you in a shower of food as it tips over on top of you. Shrouded in darkness, the presence is still here, and so are the images of food and drink. Different cultures, different foods, different ages even! They all flood past, and the presence seems elated with it all. Turning away nothing, the darkness consumes it all. The moldy cheese, the spicy meats, the dried plants and more. It takes pause to offer you some, but another facet is equally fascinated with what you are. Can you bring it more food? Can you be food? What is this?
A rock-hard bucket removes itself from over you. The hunger of the presence increases as it retreats away, but still the foods of old and new, near and far swirl past. All again fall into the bottomless bucket and are consumed. The sound of sizzling can be heard as the presence makes one last effort to entice you to feed it. But does it mean to be fed by you, or to feed on you?
Tattered Treasure Map Egg
Most of the time, this egg's shell presents a very simple view, slightly yellowed, like aged parchment, with odd sepia lines putting shadows on the surface. Every now and then, the sand gets shifted by the clutch parents, deliberately or no, and a bit more is shown, or hidden again. Occasionally, a dotted line is revealed, weaving its way up the side of the shell. Even more rarely, the base of the shell is uncovered, revealing a great big mark in red - two intersecting lines - a great crossing of strokes, almost always buried in sand.
Less than Free gives off a deep sense of longing at first touch, though it's difficult to pinpoint the mind's desire. It pulls back a moment, regroups, then rallies forth once more. There's a cautious probe at your mind, tugging at various memories. Oh dear, /that/ one. It has pulled out a memory of a time you found yourself lost, and it retreats slightly, warily. Not afraid, it would never admit it was afraid, no.
Less than Free is still poking around the edges of your mind, curious, despite itself. Another memory is seized upon, that of a gift once given, or perhaps received. Ooh, isn't that a shiny bit of lovely? The gift itself is shown large, turned over this way and that. Beautiful! Attention returns to you, now, and the mind pokes more at the memory, seeking the feelings accompanied. It thinks this was a glorious thing, but it must know what you think.
Less than Free throws up an image, quite randomly, of a candidate's knot, a string of white. It hangs there a moment, and then several others are formed to join it, linking together like a chain. This, this is no good. Rules and restrictions, it can sense them. The mind goes further back, rifling through your mind without a care. What was before this knot? What was that like? Do please share!
Less than Free is calm now, thoughtful. It has a lot to think about. Touching the shell, you sense only the faint briny aroma of the ocean, and nothing more.
