grass brown and dead with the frosts and chill of winter crunches beneath his weight a relief from the slushy and wet mess of the melt puddles of slushy remains of snow. taarlok moves with unhurried leisure towards the sound of the waves as they beckon him with each crash against the earth. he stops short as the ground suddenly gives way to a treacherous and abrupt drop off and a glimpse downwards with assessing and sharp mercurial eyes tells taarlok that the rock face straight down is uneven and the spirals that stick out of the waves as they roil and crash against them and the cliff face are sharp like the teeth of some heinous sea beast waiting for it's next meal. as he studies the pockets of entirely secluded beaches — inhabited by seals and sea birds — a large wave rushes the cliff face and he recoils from the edge as the sticky sea brine peppers his face.

taarlok withdraws from the edge, feeling more comfortable with some distance between the deadly drop and his physical body ...not that he distrusts his own balance. still, in this case he feels it's better to be safe than sorry. it appears, he thinks with a soft sigh, that he will have to find another route around because of course now that seafood is denied to him he suddenly has a taste for it. it becomes his temporary apple of eden. not forbidden necessarily but currently out of his reach and his inability to have it only makes him crave it more as it does most things he's denied. he does not approach the cliff's edge again knowing there is no way down from up here and instead heads south of his position in the hopes that he might find a safe path down to a secluded beach below. it feels like a vain hope but taarlok is determined to look, if nothing else.