Cerulean Cape wave-wracked and wanton

If anyone wants a 1-on-1 thread, here's a good spot. :)

He partook in the hunt because he was swept up in the commotion of the entire experience, herded to the beachside and then beyond, where he rushed along behind a plethora of wolves he did not know. They hollered at one another as they toiled away, and when the creature was brought down (a monumental feat akin to the slaying of a dragon, for the sea lion was something wholly new to Screech and therefore, exotic and amazing) he drew back so that the festivities could continue. He hadn't been all that helpful all things considered, but he was panting hard and hungry by the time the creature was brought down. That was when things became different. Rather than tuck in to the meal as he expected, wolves spoke and heralded the attention of the group, one by one.

There were songs in languages he did not know; stories to which he listened attentively and in silence; a dark figure danced beside the surf and he was struck by the beauty of it, the mysticism for which he had no name. This was more than a family, he realized. They were so interconnected with everything from the sea to the moon and back again; Catori said it the best, and Screech's ears turned to catch her explanation, only to turn and flatten as she spoke of a raven. He felt a bittersweet taste in the back of his throat, a lurch to his chest, a twisting inside of him.

This made him think of home. But the topic of home had never really left him tonight either. Screech had found this gathering without intending to and now, having crashed the party, had been swept up in something much bigger than he could fathom. All of the magic in the air could not stop his mind or his heart from returning to the place that was most dear to him - to the Caldera, to his mother, his brothers and sisters. While the others must have felt some sort of lightness or freedom from the party, Screech felt the established weight of his loss grow tenfold; his head bowed, he turned and looked from the storytellers, the singers, these strange but loving people, and made haste to clear the misting from his eyes.

Now would be the time for him to depart - while they were all distracted by one another - so he checked with a quick glance to see if there was a path he could take without disturbing anyone, and ducked away from the gathering as quietly as he could. He was like a thief in the night - or a child trying to escape the droning voices in church - but he didn't go far. Just far enough along the beach so that there was a dimming to the voices, where he could breathe deeply and get a handle on his feelings.