One would expect the darkness of the middle-night to be exceedingly helpful for someone as ink-streaked as Tiarnan. With the crash of the ocean hiding the soft sinking sounds of his paws, the salt in the air sucking away the pine scent that clung so strongly to his body, and the sky being streaked with stars — he should be imperceptible. A shadow roaming across the wet sand of the beach. For the most part this was true; where the moonlight touched upon his body he was kissed with pale color, but otherwise the Irishman was a wraith.
Occasionally the stolen light which shone from the moon would catch within his eyes, and like a deer being caught in headlights, the glow of the iris added a certain haunting quality to his silhouette. But the boy meant no harm. He had been along this beach before, months ago. Something drew him here — away from the pack which had claimed him previously — but he did not know what. Every time he heard the crashing of the waves he would spook and do his best to avoid the white foam of the tide. From time to time, the boy thought about disappearing in to the trees where he felt most at home; but something stopped him. Something kept pulling him closer to the sea.