One would expect the darkness of the middle-night to be exceedingly helpful for someone as ink-streaked as Tiarnan. With the crash of the ocean hiding the soft sinking sounds of his paws, the salt in the air sucking away the pine scent that clung so strongly to his body, and the sky being streaked with stars — he should be imperceptible. A shadow roaming across the wet sand of the beach. For the most part this was true; where the moonlight touched upon his body he was kissed with pale color, but otherwise the Irishman was a wraith.

Occasionally the stolen light which shone from the moon would catch within his eyes, and like a deer being caught in headlights, the glow of the iris added a certain haunting quality to his silhouette. But the boy meant no harm. He had been along this beach before, months ago. Something drew him here — away from the pack which had claimed him previously — but he did not know what. Every time he heard the crashing of the waves he would spook and do his best to avoid the white foam of the tide. From time to time, the boy thought about disappearing in to the trees where he felt most at home; but something stopped him. Something kept pulling him closer to the sea.

He came from the darkness of the trees, and Tiarnan was too distracted by the surf to notice; at first all he saw was a shining streak as moonlight cascaded across the foreigner's body, and then he was stumbling with his own black limbs upon the sand. Tripping on his own feet, Tiarnan tried to keep himself upright while faced with an attack — but he was no fighter. He was frightened, and had little time to react. The result was swift: the stranger lunged, Tiarnan tried to back-track, and teeth connected with the junction of his neck and shoulder. Dangerously close to a killing blow. The boy yelped as hot pain seared through his skin, and pulled back as best he could - but the stranger's hold was vice-like. His blood flowed in to the sand and began to clot there; all Tiarnan could do was go limp and let out a pitiful whine. His tail was naturally tucked and folded against his belly, and the rest of the youth's figure became a puddle of shadows at Ragnar's feet.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt! The boy was crumpled against the ground at the stranger's feet in the next moment, hardly resisting. He had been stupid to traverse away from the mountains and now - with the bellow of the crashing waves beside him and the smell of blood churning his stomach - Tiarnan was painfully aware of his poor judgement. But the stranger relented. He released the boy and stood over him, shining a dangerous and morbid smile his way. Why are you trespassing in my lands? The silver figure demanded answers; Tiarnan of course had none to give. Yes, he had learned a bit of English in the company of Jinx and her ilk, more when he injured himself and was nursed back to health by a stranger, but... Nothing prepared him for this.

The boy stared up at the gleaming teeth, ripe and red stained by his very blood, and felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed (painfully) and attempted to roll his dark body against the sand — exposing his tender belly in an effort to appease the irate specter. Words did flow from his mouth, but they were a garbled mess of gaelic; slipping back to his mother tongue in this time of utmost distress. Ní le do thoil dom a mharú I. .. Bhí mé aon intinn chun pas a fháil isteach má tá talamh. Oh god, why did this always happen to him.

Tiarnan was looking up at the face of the stranger, his bright eyes wild and wide. Something dripped across his snout from above and for a brief moment (a naive moment) he thought, perfect, rain. But the so-called rain was warm and streaked across his muzzle. One errand drip landed on the tip of his nose and assailed his senses with a very obvious scent, one that cleared up the momentary confusion: his blood was dripping off of his assailant's teeth and on to his face. Oh, he was going to be sick. Please, He managed, fighting the gag that rose in his throat, Home. I... I looking, Ugh, one day he'd learn to speak the foreign language of these beasts and stop sounding like such a fool; I need home.

Thus far, every interaction that Tiarnan had with another wolf wasn't a conversation, or even a standoff - but a pure altercation in some manner. He was always on the receiving end of another creature's territorial behavior, and there was really nobody to blame but himself. He didn't know the language, didn't know what to look out for, and was too concerned with simply exploring. With his penchant for being caught unawares he had also become somewhat adept at another curious trick: figuring out what someone was saying without listening.

Yes, he heard the gargantuan wolf's sounds, but he couldn't translate many of the specific words. There was familiarity with some of them and a complete lack of understanding with others. Tiarnan did what he could - he lay low, prostrating himself beneath the silver beast until a sense of calm collected around them; it was still quite tense of a situation, but the pleased rumble issued forth from the stranger told Tiarnan all he needed. He was accepted, more or less. Being a captive was better than being dead... Not that he knew what the life of a slave entailed. Reaching with his streaked snout, the boy lipped and licked at the strongman's chin as a signal of utter obeisance.