Blackwater Islands the man with the umbrella

she accepts their terms.

a low rumble of contentment is given; like a far off storm brewing within their chest.

good, the dreadfather drawls, contemplating where they should meet with her when the time comes. they are silent for a beat longer, their decision made for them by the soft tug in their chest and by the hazy image of their memory as it claws it's way to the surface of their mind.

meet me on the small island on the most northeast shore, closest to ankyra sound. they gesture with their muzzle to the island in question: a small island jutting from the sea like the jagged tooth of some decayed titan. there, i will wait for you.

in the days that pass in the meantime, they will prepare: already making the mental list of feathers and rocks and other bits and pieces they will need.