Morningside Cuesta down to a sunless sea

Kuyuk busies himself around the cuesta with patrols, although they were done hastily and without much effort. He's much more invested in testing his own limits, running, roaming; the open road is his calling, not this. Yet when the call breaks through the air, he stops his strides and cranes his neck, as if to watch the song itself. He lets out a yip; accustomed perhaps to the horde always rambling along with him, someone always near. 

He throws himself in to another long-stride run, and careens across the cuesta until Tashkent comes in to view. He slows, drifting around her, breathing her in and watching.