Oystercatcher Tide Pools of vagabonds and hermits

The birds, though frustrating in their loud squawks and wildly flapping limbs, were seemingly intelligent creatures. As the ghostly brute moved to mimic them, eyeing the dark fellow down below, he dropped his oyster onto the rocks beneath them and then peered over the side with lifted brows. It had appeared successful, at least this one, and so he turned to pick his way back down and look at the splattering of oyster goo that was on the stone below. Drawing his tongue out, the ashen figure licked the remains from the rock and swallowed it as quickly as he could, finding a great distaste for the flavor that it held. Then, glancing toward the darker male with a quirked brow, Kierkegaard nodded his head.
 
“Seems to be the birds have got it all figured out,” he joked almost bitterly. Then, almost as if it were an afterthought, the Sairensu male flicked his fiery gaze back to the ink-coated boy. “My name is Kierkegaard,” he offered awkwardly. The gruff tone of his voice was not directed at the youth, but only an aftereffect of the life that the great ghost had lived.