Dust had settled on everything in the gallery. It muted the statues, made the air stale and draped the place in a tangible melancholy. Leaving New Orleans, even if it was only for a short time, had hurt. She had grown accustomed to the warmth, the swamp and most importantly the company.
Now all Medusa felt was cold. Why she had come back she could not say. There was a mortal that made sure the bills were paid and while Phobos was here she had not followed him. Whatever journey he has on was meant for him and him alone.
Sighing, she traced nonsense symbols in the dust and that's when she felt him.
Once he commanded the presence the of a turbulent sea. Now he was barely a ripple in a pond.
When Medusa greeted Poseidon it was not with words or venom.