Dragoncrest Cliffs near-sighted

There had once been a beautiful conch shell on the beach; peachy and pearlescent, cleaned by months of being carefully toted about on the bottom of the sea floor until it was rolled out onto the sand with a high tide. Chacal had passed by it many times, admiring it. She'd told herself she should move it to higher ground, where it might be safe; somewhere that she could tuck it away and admire it from time to time. She could gift it to one of her children, or place it as a marker on a grave. Another night passed and the next morning, the shell was gone.

It was in the nature of life to give and take. The conch came, rested, and then vanished. As cruel as it was, friends, children, parents- they came and went, too. But among all the things lost, found, and lost again, men seemed to be particularly keen to wander.

Her name throbbed with the wind, carried by a voice that was near-frantic in nature. The stately Tanzanite sat up and pitched her velveteen ears forward, her expression ambivalent. If it weren't for the tone of his voice, she would have dismissed him for some time yet; given herself a couple hours to stew and figure out what course of action she should take. She might grab Mireille so that they could both chase him away; but her heart, broken and mended many times, was still whole. And it sounded more as a plea than a beg for mercy.

She had no idea that Jean-Heron would be with him. And while he was a young man, Jean-Heron was still her son- and thus, exempt from the punishment of being shunned for leaving.

So she made for the borders, where she would wait patiently for Svalinn to arrive. For the children he had given her, and his longtime devotion to the Sound, she would give him room for an explanation.