Dragoncrest Cliffs itchuktuk

The wet sand hid his approach with moderate success, each stride long and languid, until the sea came rushing close to wet his toes. Kivirut took a few smacks of brine before smartening up; the water dripping from his elbows and the point of his chest after one sweep of the tide, then soaking up to his ankles on the next, as he moves further from the ocean's reach.

When Kivirut moves towards higher ground he gets more than he bargained for: soon the sounds of the sea have diminished beneath him. He strides along a strip of windswept stone laid bare, wild yellow grass limp against the curve of the earth.

The boy's freeform canter becomes a coltish walk, then he stops—finding many scents before him on the path. He licks his lips and searches nervously with his eyes first, then his ears, for any sign of wolves. He knows someone is out there and is ready to bolt at the first sight of danger.