Ravenshook Cliffs compelled to write with aching fearful hands

there was nothing that he liked more than being close to the water. it was as much a part of him as the hide on his back. now, the sea was not nearly as fond to him as the muggy swamps of the bayou. he did not belong to the churning waters and endless stretch of blue against a clouded sky. though he knew as much, it was difficult for him to pull himself away from the great lapping sea. buckshot did not know how far inland he'd need to trek before he found the thrill of a wetland again. there wasn't a night that passed when he didn't reminisce on the sound of crickets and swamp frogs.

the great jutting stones were impressive from the shore; they were even more impressive when he had wound his way to the tops of them. unlike the other wolf who prowled along the cliff side, buck wasn't too fearful of the drop. he found himself drawn to the edge with a sense of wonder that caused his limbs to quiver just slightly and his eyes to search for something that could possibly save him if he should tumble over the edge. it was only when he realized that his death would have been absolute that he found a sense of peace. the thought that the corner of the earth could swallow something whole was very real, and very intense when one was so closely positioned to that reality.

swinging his skull away from the drop, buckshot turned to see the figure of another. this one was sturdy and very much adult. the cajun brute felt a wash of intrigue that lasted only a moment. he trotted in the direction of the stranger without saying a word.