Seaside Moors he listens to wind secrets

In dawn, Rusalka looked like a painting, the moor grass backlit by the rising sun, curved and soft and blazing like peach fuzz on a round cheek.

Ground is slippery with mist. His toes grip the dirt but there is always the sense that one misplaced foot-pound of pressure will send him reeling to the ground. His stomach and jaw tighten. He had slept restlessly and woken up with his bruxism back in full force. He couldn't recall his dream. It hurt to open his mouth. The doctor had told him a while ago to relax and Miranda still regrets not biting him then and there. Yeah, I'll try to relax alright.

His objective this dripping autumn morning is the dark man standing on the seam between the beach and the moor. Some General McArthurian figure, broad-shouldered and eyes narrowed in an impassive squint. Clearly built for the tundra -- he feels an instant kinship with the stranger (you can take a wolf away from the mountains, but not the mountains from the wolf).

Hello, he calls out through a smile. Something to do, so early in the morning?