Cerulean Cape wave-wracked and wanton

The night time wasn't a frightful place to him anymore. Screech couldn't remember the last time he'd been afraid of it. Had he ever? Maybe not. But at some point he'd transitioned from childhood fears to real, palpable, adult traumas. The dark was just that — dark. It did not have teeth no matter how many times his dreams said otherwise.

The darkness had become a part of him. He could march his way through Ravensblood Forest without doing too much harm to himself now, but he still craved the open space beyond it — so Screech followed the river, his head canted down so that he could investigate the scents collected on the riverside stones. It was through his peripheral vision that Screech caught sight of a flash; he twitched his head towards the flowing river and squinted his good eye, but he could see nothing. So, he carried on his way until the forest thinned and the river emptied out upon the coast.

It was here he saw another flash — a myriad — for in the dark the stars were dancing in the waves, their light reflected. He only noticed the gathering of wolves when he traced the seaside with his eye, and saw their bodies blocked out with the shining surf beyond. All at once he was nervous and curious, skeptical but bold, and he skulked closer to investigate the happy sounds from the waiting bodies.

They seemed content among themselves; while he did not wish to intrude or disturb them, Screech wasn't interested in returning to the depths of the forest either. So he paused a dozen or so metres away to be safe, and turned to watch the rolling waves.