Stavanger Bay city life, pocket camp

The presence of another Cairn – for as fleeting as it was – did not even phase the titan. She had vanished before he had ever turned his mismatched gaze on her frame. This was likely for the best. If he had learned that his half-siblings still roamed the wilds without having returned to their intended home, he would have thought them an unruly and pathetic lot. Moorhen could run back to her sea folk. Ford would rebuild their empire as it had been intended. There was no shame in the fact that their paths would likely never cross. He would not have treated her any kinder than her own blood brother had.

Snow flecks danced through the air as the wind kicked against the sandy shores and bent the charred trees of the sentinels. Distantly, thunder boomed and echoed across the bay with a terrifying timbre that filled the warhound with a strange sense of delight. He stood as a statue on the beach, following the dangerous tug and pull of the waves as they were thrown against the bay. It was a demonstration of nature at its very finest, and though Ford had already been blessed by the storms, there was a savage desire to plunge beneath the swell and disappear forever.

Instead, the skeletal brute watched as Dalia danced along the sands and collected the fish that had washed ashore. She seemed adept in that moment – like she belonged there, and had belonged there her entire life. Ford's eyes fluttered against the wash of rain and snow that beat against his pale face. After waiting for long enough, the warhound moved from his gargoyle stance and raced the length of the shore in powerful strides. He drew himself close enough so that the water crashed against his limbs, threatening to topple him over. Yet, he did not fall.