Blackbeak Bluff she stands cold, she stands hollow

The Priest stalked the coastline. Looking for a hint of his lost.
A hint of Nyra. That pale witchling that had left. She was dead. Should be dead.
He doubted he'd find her body, but here he was. Looking for it anyway.

He pursed his lips. Fenrir was in mourning, really, and didn't want to admit it. Instead, he buried his guilt and loss deep within and clung to the hope of finding the lost wench.
He hummed as he walked, head high. Mangled neck on display. He spied a form, almost teetering on the cliff edge in his opinion. A strong gust in an unexpected direction would have her tumbling and splattering far, far below.

He let out a soft sigh. It wasn't any of his ilk. He shouldn't approach. Shouldn't talk to her. Let her be content in her silence.
Indecision warred with him as wandering paws brought his wandering frame to a halt. Wandering mind wondering if she was worth the Priest's time.