Redhawk Caldera Vísdómr.

OOOOF, time got away from me these last couple weeks.

"Enough Wags, Mother's Mercy, I heard it already," he groaned, stretching in the midday sun. 

They were settling -- if you could call it settling. Whip did. It was a settled that he was accustomed to. Love at arm's length or something like that. The Caldera was the home he'd known; he was born here, and he would die here, and that was the choice he'd made.

"We can't just ignore her Dad, we-- I don't know where we stand here and it's just--"

"I'm not ignoring her," Whip replied, offended. "I'm old. I move slow. Have some damn grace."

With a rattling shake, Whip Redhawk was soon on his feet. 

He let his daughter lead the way into the territory proper on account of his failing sight.

When they arrived, this place so near to the place of his birth, though he could not see it, he could feel the ghost of memory pushing him forward; the wind in his sails. 

He kept his distance from the water and called gruffly, "I'm here -- I'm here --" before tossing a frustrated glance Wagtail's way. "--But somebody was getting impatient."