Dragoncrest Cliffs Freshet

Jean-Heron was born in the manner of countless others before him, except perhaps for the moonlit seaside vista and a harsh wind whose surges would only make him stronger.

Broken from the sac, his first breath was limned with salt, and this taste would become flesh-memory, as the salted air coated his throat and sunk into his veins. He coughed and screeched, gullish squalls gurgling until he was cleaned and nestled in among familiar bodies. His loud, rasping cries died to whimpers as he eagerly fed, tucked between breast and sibling, senseless towards anything else.

Having washed away the tang of seasalt, a milk drunkenness took him soon after, and he could be seen bowled over by his swollen belly, smacking sopping lips in his sleep.