Ankyra Sound Círbann

Fog had rolled in and settled like a blanket upon the shoreline, across the stretching waters of the sea, and clinging to the stoneface protection that surrounded the bay.

Aerandír chased the froth into the heavy murk. His limber frame seemed to dance along the edges of the waves as his teeth snapped for the debris that was carried to shore. Twice already he had pulled away with a fish clasped in his teeth. The elven figure carried it back to the shore where he rested upon his belly and began to chew away the scales. Once the meat was revealed, Aerandír laughed and ate until he was content.

The Mirkwood dog drew his golden ears to a point as he scanned the shore. The man of Mirkwood was nowhere to be seen. The other fair folk, too, were gone. Aerandír watched gulls swoop from overhead and pluck wriggling masses from the water.

Laughter filled the air for a time. The scent of white meat. A taste of fish blood that gave the air a sour note — this he did not like, and thought to turn away from it.

When he did, chaos descended from overhead in the form of many wings and eyes, to pluck from the boiling sea. THe world's edge tapered before the hound, who had stopped his stalking to stare.

The mountain dog cut a sharp red shape against the rocky guardians that surrounded the beach. If it had not been for the deep color of his coat, the fair one would not have seen or heard him. Instead, the keen eyes of the Mirkwood dog latched tightly to the stranger’s body.

Aerandír rose from his place in the sand, discarding the remains of his fish. The bisque color of his eyes roamed freely over the stranger. The scents upon the wind concealed all from his nose. Still, Aerandír drew his long features upward and he filled his senses with it. The brine was overwhelming. Nothing broke through the thickness of that scent except for the remains of the fish.

The elven figure danced forward on light paws. A smile formed on the dog’s long snout.

Who was this crimson cloak? A man who looked as though he belonged in the rough of the mountain stone.

Sorry for the lag!

When the stranger rose from where they lay and moved to meet with the red-bodied man, a smile graced his features.

Even with the friendly expression donned there was something of a natural worry there too. Sargon was pleased to have company — even his tail whipped a few times to prove it — but he had one of those faces.

Unlike the fawnling that approached, sun-touched even in winter. Fur like whisps of smoke; more than what he had, beautifully composed.

Hail, traveler. The man's voice commanded even the sea to quail before him. You are far from your people; you look wild like the beasts here, more deer than dog. A mere observation.

You are perfectly fine! I really enjoy Sargon so far. ^^

When the red mountain man spoke, he did so in such a commanding way that the fair figure found himself moved. The sway of the stranger’s tail was sign enough. The crimson cloaked ranger would not be a threat until he had proven himself to be. Aerandír would grant him that much, at least.

The golden windhound smiled wistfully and chuckled into the wind.

Yes, far indeed. And you, mountain ranger! You do not look as though you belong to the seaside.

Aerandír had never thought himself deer-like, but he believed it seemed complimentary. The red ranger wore the paws of one who had traveled. The windhound wondered where his roots were. What had drawn him into the wilds and so far from man?