Blackbeak Bluff as a game i put my hand over the flame

The wind threaded through his wiry pelt; the tides below tugging into the shoreline with an ambient crash, before receding and reinforcing its elemental strengths against the land.  His senses were ignited by the burn of brine and winter, his throat throbbing as he inhaled barbed vapors that seemed to cut against the yielding, vulnerable flesh of his trachea.  A peculiar sound begins to vibrate against the hairs of his ears – footsteps, uneven, labored.  A single ear is pulled – towed by the threads of curiosity – as he trains upon the acute sonance of chilled foliage crunching under the pressure of a decidedly demure weight.  He did not have to look at her to discern her size – hers were a trudge that seemed feather-light, though her injured hobble afforded a distinct weightiness upon one side.  She calls to him – her polite notification dampened by the agitated gurgles of the sea – so that it is not but a whisper upon the crest of his ears.  He turns, the silvery spherules of his eyes dancing upon her curves – she seemed worn, a haggard, battle-weathered Valkyrie simply drifting across the landscape as though the tattered vestiges of her comrades littered under her feet.  Her sharpened visage akin to a knife blade, jowls scornful under the concave of her cheekbones that jutted alike the apex of a toothy mountain – “You look a little worse for wear, love,” he comments, though it does not hold a mockful tone – playful, perhaps, as his upper lip pulls over a tooth.  Charming, in an unwashed, vagrant-like way.