Dragoncrest Cliffs my tree house is on fire

There was a rustling sound, hear above the lulling roar of the ocean — that which was never truly quiet but easy for Kjalarr who had lived portions of his life beside it to tune out. His head snapped in her direction, and accordingly he squinted having a hard time deciphering her from the dry grasses she was camouflaged in. For a second, he was annoyed. Not at her, but at himself. If she were a enemy he'd lose any advantage he might have had because he struggled to decipher her grayscale silhouette from the moving gray grasses. It was his own fault because he'd taken to the darker hours: dusk, dawn and night to ease the struggle of sight. At nightfall he was on a level playing field with everything else around him. In the light of day, no doubt made worse by his avoidance of sunlight if he could help it, he was at the disadvantage. Yet, he'd learned so very long ago to not let it show. He wore a bravado of a mask, determined to ask like there was nothing wrong with him. Few knew of his condition, and Kjalarr knew he wanted it to stay that way.

He ghosted towards the grasses, enough that he could distinguish her from the grasses that swayed around her. She was still pretty camouflaged but he could see her easier now. His muzzle lifted in the air slightly as he assessed her by her scent, canting his head to the side when he was finished. “Are you hunting?” He inquired her, though he had not scented any prey near them. “Or are you hiding?” He added. In truth, it wasn't any of his business but he was an innately curious creature, for better or for worse.