Shimmering Sands O Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?

He liked Eartha. He'd follow her most places. Probably not into hell, but that was a pretty extreme example, and this beach was far from hell. 

Vulcan stood off to the side, the near winter wind ruffling his already disheveled, salt-crusted coat. His eyes were glacial but not unfriendly, stark only in color. He was ready. The hunt was on. 

If it hadn't been for Eartha, he'd still be that mouthy boy who'd brought Tortugan pirates to their wits' end. He'd be dead, his ass punted into the sun by whoever he'd pissed off last. She had given Vulcan a semblance of discipline and poise. Under her leadership, he had grown up. 

But the boy emerged, at least for a moment, to roll happily in the pale sand, relishing in the feel, the sea smell. His tongue lolled; he lay on his back, taking a much needed respite from the journey. 

I can stand guard tonight, Vulcan offered, knowing full well he'd regret it in the wee hours.