Dragoncrest Cliffs they say war is hell

following the serpentine twist of the coast; ikutur's steps pound out a staccato against the shifting sands as it melds into solid earth; each step like the thrum of a war drum. the young tundrian knows little and acknowledges little else. prowess, strength ...they are defining features. lessons taught from the cradle of his stoic and stalwart mother's womb. stories of battles, of conquerors lulled him to sleep and he rose with spars in the mornings. dispersal gave him too much time to think; focus split between where he was going and why, and tending to his own survival. a pause in steps is given, a bow of head to snuffle at the earth beneath his feet, a keen glimpse given at the cliffs that drop treacherously into the churning waves below: unfathomable blue and the white frothy break of waves. ikutur turns away from the cliff, pressing forth towards the heart of the territory where emerald knolls give way to shade of woodland.