Whitebark Stream displaced

When the boy called him an old man, Larus paused everything and looked himself over. He seemed surprised by the look on his face, and glanced over his limbs, his chest, what he could make out of his tail with a wag, and even circled on the spot to try and glimpse more of himself; was he old? Had he gotten old at some point, and lost himself to time? He didn't feel old. But then, he couldn't remember things properly, and he knew he wasn't in the best shape—especially with how difficult hunting had become for him. It would have been worth it to think about if he could retain the line of thought long enough, but alas, he could not.

The boy motioned elsewhere, and Larus' attention followed the shine of the boy's nose, looking toward where he indicated with a perplexed, empty expression. The boy spoke of the sea next, and Larus had forgotten all about his own questions; but it brought to life something inside of him. Some kind of recognition, an anchor which steadied his many thoughts and collected them in to something tangible, something real he could use. Oh, right, he remarks with a breath.

He doesn't say anything else to the boy—doesn't even notice the burning mountain behind him anymore—and saunters alongside the stranger for a bit before their paths diverge, and he murmurs, Find the...sea, the... the sound, and slowly, the spider-web of his remaining thoughts begin to knit in to something else.