Blackbeak Bluff Can you fly child?

the dreadfather draws in a breath, seaglass gaze slides to the roiling sea; a dark, churning abyss, leaving her to linger in their peripheral vision momentarily. a soft noncommittal noise leaves them, lost to the crash of the sea and splash of the spray as it slams down against the earth.

of course the sea is beautiful, the dreadfather wants to say; because in its dark and dangerous beauty they is reminded of their nightwife. of the void that they had called home for ...so very long.

a small, wily smile tugs at the corners of their lips at her poetic words of innate beauty in the unknown and dangerous. but danger is not unknown to them. they are achingly and intimately familiar with every dark crevice: every monster ...because they've been that very monster. in some form or another.

slowly, the dreadfather's gaze moves back to her where it lingers. it is not truly unknown, the dreadfather speaks, breaking their silence. death is the only thing that awaits in those waves. even those lucky enough to survive the fall, to survive the merciless tossing and churning of the waves ...they did not return the same. death left it's mark on everything.

a pause is given. i had not either. not until my wife chose it for our home. well, not the 'sea' specifically, but as they were surrounded by it on their isle home they might as well consider themselves 'seawolves' all the same.