Dragoncrest Cliffs blueish-purple

aw - maybe @Sobeille?

Jean-Heron still needed daily saltwater baths. The lingering sting was much less these days, although thin lines of abstract bruises were still visible beneath his sheer puppy fur.

The boy's rambunctiousness had spirited away during the most severe part of his recovery, as to be expected, but this was quickly returning. His memory of the incident itself seemed incredibly short-lived.

It was father's turn to bathe him, who did so ungently, before leaving him on the summerwarmed beach to dry.

Jean rolled giddily in the sand -- it did not hurt much at all this time! And once he'd given himself a nice coating, he started to prance along the beach trail, eyes alert for something to snatch up in his mouth. When a flock of seabirds appeared ahead, he charged at them with a mighty battle cry, sending the poor birds into a frenzied flight.

cameo post!

Dunk. Swish. Plop!

There. He's clean.

After essentially hanging his son out to dry, Svalinn sauntered away to get some peace and quiet allow his child some independence. Still, the goldcloak loomed within earshot.

He looked up briefly at Jean-Heron's "battle cry," reclining again once he'd determined that the chosen targets were not a threat. As he lie down and closed his eyes, he sent a silent prayer for someone else to come take the boy off his paws for a little while.

sobeille came to answer svalinn’s silent prayers that day, intrigued by the childish battle whoop heard from the swashline. she spotted the golden cloak of her uncle first, eyes narrowing on the tiny terror that sent a dozen gulls to the sky like a bowling ball striking a dozen winged pins.

as the gulls flapped off with a series of none-too-kind avian cursewords, sobeille sauntered towards the pied marauder. there was something about his fur pattern she’d always found intriguing— it was like half of his color hadn’t formed.

he’d make a fine pelt, once all that sand had been beat from him.

you know, sobeille informed, coming aside him with a catlike twitch of her tail: dat you are supposed to be silent when you be ‘untin’, yea? you can’t sneak up on dem if you be screamin’ all de time.

Jean's split face whipped up to see a familiar dark mask. I no screamin', he refuted loudly -- either too much of a liar or too defiant to heed a lick of Sobeille's sage advice. He then immediately went on to (just as loudly) contradict his prior denial by proclaiming, I beach cleanin'! The announcement came with a proud puffing of his chest.

Dis be my sand. I makes dem fly 'way from my land.

beach cleaning? sobeille's mouth twisted in the briefest expression. 'ow you be cleanin when you look like a grease spot? she teased, moving out of range of any sand or teeth.

mebbe dat's why dey keep returnin'. dey be thinkin' you somet'ing the tide spat out. sobeille flicked some sand his way and then moved off in a smooth trot. bet you can't run faster den me.

sobeille did not give him a headstart - she launched into an open gallop towards the salt flats.

Excusez-moi!

Jean's head reared back in offense. He'd have you know that his mother thinks that he's the most handsome boy to ever see the light of day! His raspy growl sounded a moment before he lunged right for her impish face, but she was too used to his rebuttals, smugly easing out of his reach.

With a toss of sand underfoot and a challenge over her shoulder, Sobeille was sprinting away! Yipping, Jean gave chase. I gon' catch you! Den I make you boo-hoo!

Though he had no hope of keeping up on a paved road, let alone in sand, he charged after her with leonine determination. But she could've run with the ungainliness of a newborn giraffe and he still wouldn't be able to catch her. Still, he tried his best; even attempting to run at her diagonally in an effort to close the distance.

true to sapphique fashion, there was fire in this one. sobeille was grateful to have pre-emptively moved from his teeth when he struck like an asp at empty air.

hah, sucker.

she moved off in the fluid stride of a dunewalker, used to the drag of sand. she could hear the skitter-patter of feet behind her, and could envision -- though her eyes were not upon him presently -- the cut of cold determination twisting jean-heron's striking face.

he promised to catch her! sobeille cackled as he honed in like a missile, veering towards the tide-line. it would be cruel to go into the water to avoid him -- and she imagined his fun-sucking father would have something to say about it -- but what was the harm in a little teasing?

her strides grew longer as she drove into the water, wondering just how far from the shore she would need to go to lose sapphique's piebald barnacle.