Blackbeak Bluff in your temple

temperament: phlegmatic

despite the patches of snow flurries that sprinkle the chilly morn — his breath coming from his lips and black, leathery nose in thin will-o-wisps of writhing steam as if to showcase the frigid nip of the sea air — airnbjorn finds himself both well-rested and sated; his breakfast of half-eaten seal left upon the shores of the sound for the scavengers, the gulls fighting over who got first peck. his course takes him west still, from the sands of the sound and into the rollicking winterbrown fields, dusted with the white of snowfall of the buff.

with him, the cairn takes no excess food. loathe as he is to waste what he does not eat he has no secure place to store it until he reaches the bay that hangs upon the lips of the older cairns with a reverence that has given the kraken no choice but to seek it out himself; nevermind the unknowing of whether it lays claimed by another or not. it didn't matter. if it was claimed then he would take it. it is where the cairns have planted their seeds and roots for generations before him and it is where he would plant his own.

the cries of gulls are heard from below the deadly drop where the fields abruptly end, giving way to sheer and rough cut rock wall with nothing — as far as he can immediately tell — to offer a tentative passage down. noting it as unuseful to him, arinbjorn turns from the drop and puts some space between it and him and continues forth in the grasses weighed and bowed by the fresh accumulation of snow.