The roiling seas continued to lash out at the coasts, dragging sand and clay into the once-blue depths until they swirled murky and grey. He could hear the plaintive cries of civilians, mortals begging for their gods to stop the storm, but he knew damn well that no Gaulish weather god would dare disturb him in his righteous anger. His retribution was born from the primordial brine of the seas, and he would not see his people made laughing stocks by the Roman swine.
Which was why the sudden sound of divine providence only served to sharpen his already bitter tongue and to make his rage surge even more. What stupid little god - or goddess, as it sounded - would dare interfere with his revenge?
It took no time to locate the source of the interruption, and in a crash of lightning, bravado and anger, he appeared on the shore, forest green cloak billowing in the howling winds, raven hair windblown as well, and his blue eyes flashing with power. He recognized her the moment he saw her, and it hardly thrilled him. "Rosmerta." He growled, the R's rolling like the seas before him. "Go back to your temples and listen to the prayers of your people. And tell them not to give the Romans passage to Eire."