Ankyra Sound salt in the wound

Edmund didn't want to loiter for long among the wolves of Drageda, mostly because he was starting to feel bored with their natural tendency to exclude him; it wasn't their fault he didn't understand their language or their way of life, and he wasn't hurt by it. He didn't often feel things and, as far as he knew, they weren't doing it out of spite (because for Edmund spite did not exist).

But he busied himself, since he needed to prove his worth. While in the territory he'd spied a massive stretch of beach from a cliff-side vantage point and was eager to discover it, so that's where he decided to go today. He left the ridge and headed west, feeling more confident when the sand gave way to grass and gravel, and then a little irritated as his path descended through some foothills until the sand returned. 

He crept along until there was sand all around him; from here, in the center of the sound, he could make out the dark clouds on the horizon competing with the deep blue of the sea. He could see washed-out stonework carved by the tide, and set his mind on investigating the area. There was a lot of dry seaweed, and what he thought could've been ice layered across it, but a flick of his tongue told him it was a layer of salt crystals. It tasted awful. 

Edmund deeply regretted this trip, suddenly. He wished there was something for him here. If he returned to the pack empty-handed (so to speak) then that wouldn't prove much to the commander or the other wolves, and he refused to be seen as a waste of space.

He'd been spending more and more time at the coast.  It was cooler here by the water than it was on the cliffs and he found that he enjoyed the colder weather.  His summer pelt had been replaced by a plush winter undercoat, and it was now becoming obvious that he took after his sire in size.  His proportions were still off but he was mighty, with powerful rolling shoulders and a stocky build.  Presently his large paws left deep imprints in the sand behind him as he loped along the coast, veering this way and that to avoid the clumps of seaweed.

He'd heard they had someone new but he had never gotten the chance to meet him, but when there was a silhouette on the horizon he didn't recognize he altered his course to address the stranger.  Hei, he says, What're you doing?

It should not be surprising to find the wolves of Drageda ranging out from their base of operations, but it is a bit odd for Edmund to be set upon by someone so swiftly; he notices the beefy young man in his peripheral vision and when he draws near, Edmund notices his youth in the length of his limbs, large paws, and broad shoulders. He is going through a metamorphosis and it isn't quite complete.

The boy — because he isn't a man at all, not yet — calls out in a manner that might've been deemed friendly by any other wolf, but to Edmund was just noisy. He wasn't sure if he should say anything, so he remained silent while the boy's steps crunched across the sand. His question didn't elicit much of a response from the new recruit.

He looked down at the seaweed at his own feet, finding it more interesting than the strange sounds the boy was making, and cut through the question by stating, I was studying the weeds. They taste like fish. This was a small observation, an obvious one, but he said it so very seriously and with a blank expression on his face — one had to wonder if Edmund might've been dropped on his head as a child. He presumed by the inflection of the boy's sounds that he was asking a question, so he answered with his dull voice, I saw the beach from the cliffs so I'm here to investigate.

If the boy didn't understand him, that was fine. Edmund could talk to himself if he absolutely needed to (otherwise how would he have an intelligent conversation?).

The way Edmund responded made Tux believe he could speak the language, but the man still responded in the language of the outsiders.  His brow creases; he does not know this language as well as Trigedasleng, but if it is what the stranger prefers, well, he knows enough to get by.  His eyes flicker to the salt crusted weeds strewn upon the sands, then back up at the stranger.

Well, shoot.  He'd never thought to put them in his mouth before (hold your applause) but it made sense that they'd taste like fish.  It came from the water, which sure smelled like fish.  He wrinkles his nose but cannot help but bend down to lick at one of the beached seaweeds, and immediately he realizes what a mistake that was.  He smacks his tongue across the roof of his mouth as his lips raise.  Salt, too.

He sniffs, nose still wrinkled, before he addresses the stranger again.  What's your name?