Iktome Plains Coastal Wolves

he is... bored, if he allows himself the privilege of declaring his situation bored. for his madir has always spoken to him while his mind lay idle and she had implanted the seed of restlessness in his weary soul. and she had ever chastised the boy for letting his mind fall silent, for giving in to the charms of void - when there is nothing to do, dreamspinner, she would tell the youth, go out and make something to do. never have yourself naming boredom.

and so the boy had done as his dear madir commanded, setting himself from the pleasant dreariness of the grouse forest (contradiction, though it holds truth!) to walk, delving into the intricacies of his own wondering mind. ysen does not come upon the hard stone of shore, but he senses the change in the feeling of the soil under his step, scents the brine entering the air. he is close to sea, then! and perhaps, from here, he might view his homeland as his madir was wont to speak about.

he is disappointed when all his eye catches is the endless blue-upon-blue of the waters, ne'er once looking upon the fabled beaches of the lands-across-time, but ysengrin only feels the frown come and go and before long, he is walking again.

never allow the mind to grow idle, after all.

ysengrin's gaze fixes upon a hide of handsome palette - greys and blacks and browns, though he cannot tell the colouration of the eyes just yet. from afar all they see of him is the wolf he is, though although he comes closer, they will still find his birth-sex undiscernible. man, or woman? he is man, through scent alone, but voice and body speak of both sexes flowing together. androgynous, he remembers. the word is androgynous.

"hail there!" he calls to the figure whilst he is a while away - not to startle, of course. the boy would so hate to be the cause of shock when he has no intention of doing so.