Ankyra Sound i'll tell you a secret

the moon hangs like a pale, glowing planet in the velveteen folds of the night sky, dulling the stars that wink too close to its illustrious brilliance; the tide is at the height of it's peak, washing ashore higher than nights previous. a glimpse skyward is given to take idle note of the thick clouds that have brought snow on and off for the better part of the afternoon onwards, sand banks of the beach accented with a pale dusting of snow. arinbjorn gives a slow blink, lets out a soft noise — neither of discontent nor of particular pleasure — and pushes forward; the chilly sand offering familiar resistance as he treads just out of the tide's reach.

the cairn considers the wisdom of diverting his path a bit inland in search of shelter — or food; for while he'd been lucky prior to his entrance to the wilds he has been so focused upon his goal ( reaching stavanger bay ) that he has forgotten to eat and his stomach protests now with a rumble. still, bullheaded is as bullheaded was and he lets out his own, answering rumble beneath his breath. even in the dark, this place does not match the description of stavanger bay and he knows he has not yet reached his targeted destination. onward, he trudges along the sand dunes of the sound, determined to ignore his most base of natures until it ( his hunger ) is so persistent that surrendering to it is the only thing he can do.

the ebony gargoyle was yet still unfamiliar with the sea and it's ever changing tides, for he was not born to it's rolling waves or open shores. in fact, up until a few days ago, he had never seen the ocean or felt it's mighty roar. he'd heard stories of course, as many wandering yearlings did, but none quite lived up to being able to see the view for yourself.

he assumed in summer the coast would be even more appealing, easily drawing in travelers anxious to see the beauty for themselves as he himself had been. yet even still in the colder months when conditions were far from ideal, the sea seemed to lure strangers to it's sandy beaches with ease. and so, as the unfamiliar figure trudged their way along the coastline, astaroth watched from a distance with mild interest until eventually he grew bored and pulled himself forward to go cut the stranger off.

temperament roll: choleric.

though the kraken is soothed by each predictable crash of the waves upon the shore: frothy with foam and tangles of seaweed, illuminated by bioluminescence which paint the shores an eerie blue; lulled to a near placidness like a child at the end of a tantrum it is a tentative thing. his mood remains, still, choleric though what this general irritation is borne of he cannot say. there is rarely an explanation for it when he wakes as grumpy as a bear premature from hibernation.

at first, the ebony gargoyle goes seen but unacknowledged. in fact, the temperamental cairn hopes to slip on by; like ghosts whose paths cross but do not intersect. these hopes are rapidly dashed, as if the sea herself saw it to be so with the next crash of wave upon the shore — higher than before so very near touching his toes — as the stranger moves to intercept. never one to speak much since the drop — and in no real mood to converse —, arinbjorn's muzzle raises ever-so-slightly as he regards the other man with his mercurial gaze, a low grunt given though the noise is, presumably, lost in the ever present roar of the sea.

the majority of those he'd met during his stay along the coast had been extroverted, friendly, and easy to converse with. he hadn't even considered that perhaps his presence was unwanted, for he was far too absorbed in the man's appearance and brawny stature to focus on much else.

in fact, astaroth was so intrigued by the rib markings that he stopped in his pursuit to admire them. they looked familiar, the overwhelming sense of deja vu washing over him. but no matter what corners of his mind he poked and prodded at, he couldn't place where he'd seen them before. and so instead of advancing any further, the inky ghoul remained in place and wondered if perhaps the two of them had met once before.

to his silence, the kraken of the cairns holds fast; though it occurs to him — briefly — that conversing with those more familiar with these wilds than he might prove beneficial. then again, since the drop, arinbjorn was more feral than he was civilized. he preferred it this way; this savage truth as opposed to the lies that slip from betwixt clenched teeth. studiously, the cairn watches the approach of the stranger, upper lip curling back in an irritable warning; brief and perhaps unseen by the stranger. arinbjorn's ears flutter back as he realizes what has caught the stranger's interest.

the mark of cairn.

a unique ribcage marking that arinbjorn assumes was passed from his grandfather, skellige, for smokestep had been absent it. it draws many eyes, raises even more questions; sometimes praises ...as if any of the cairns could control whether or not they had it. why do you stare, wayfairer? arinbjorn desires to ask but refuses to be the first to break the silence that exists between them.

where?

where had he seen them before? it hadn't been the sea. or the mountains. "your markings" he finally starts, ears twitching from the ocean breeze. "i've seen them before" he reveals, honeyed eyes tracing the lines that sculpted the man's ribcage.

he had to wonder if they were unique to the titan before now, or if they were a mark of a specific bloodline. he knew of other families who would pass on specific genetics from one generation to the next, and couldn't help but wonder if he'd perhaps met one of the stranger's relatives in the past.