Ankyra Sound to live and die by the sword

the afternoon is hot, muggy. sticky. even the seabreeze of the sound can not entirely combat the humidity that hangs heavy and thick in the air; syrupy. the dreadfather moves like a shadow borne from the sea; fur wet with saltwater that clings to them. it is the only reason, they suspect, that they have not felt the full brunt of the opressive heat.

a soft shake of their pelage is given before they continue their prowl of the beach. a glimpse is cut towards blackwater islands; something unnamed and unacknowled brewing deep beneath their skin, in the cavern where their mortal, flesh heart beat.

they ignore it. cast it away; incorrigable in their stubbornness to listen.

seaglass gaze cuts back to the path before them: familiar but not so intimate that would suggest they've spent copious amounts of time here.