Wheeling Gull Isle picks himself up and keeps climbing for the prize again

Wherever the boy's mind wandered, it would return and he would be empty for a time. If he thought of anything or anyone it was uknowable, as even his own mind could not fathom to drift for long. But he was, for a time, consumed—and so he did not notice the stranger's approach or his spoken words. Rather, he was not a stranger. Had Mou been present he would have recognized the beachcomber from Maegi's mitexi, if not by name then by the look of him. 

Mou was trapped in the memory of the sea. Of it's grip, her grip, and he couldn't see the difference between the crackling of the waves across the stones and the sound of his bones being split; the taste of the salt water he had nearly drowned on and the blood that had poured from his neck; the red that stained him, and the red that winged at him across a cliffside—

—how are you? came an unfamiliar voice at a level too loud for his ears, but it served to sever whatever connection he'd had to the ephemeral, and Mou's focus resumed. The misted look in his expression became sharp and pointed, and he seemed to spook within his flesh, turning sharply with a sudden intake of breath when he realized he was not alone.

A meek smile slipped across his pale face, then. Trying to be friendly, or at least return the sentiment of kindness and attention to his visitor, he clicked an answer fit for a bird: Mm, hmm, keh, It took some thought and some fooling with his breathing to get it right, but his emphasis was present as he tried to affirm, he was okay, but could not say it. The boy dipped his nose in a friendly nod to the stranger then, and sighed, Oou? And you?