cast all our sins into the ocean Salty air whips against the scarred, stony face of the lion in the bay. He'd paused to rest, exhausted from his journey from the grove. From her. Sort of healed wounds littered over his already patch-work body, breaking open where he’d stretched them too far or worked too hard. They would end up permanent, but fálki had long ago stopped caring about additional ugliness. He can’t help but think of Vellen, especially now. What might the dark god think of him? Pleasure that Falki had fought for his family despite everything, that in a way he still serves the bastard deity that he is not even sure exists? Or would Vellen hold all the disdain the outcast is sure the Sigrun as a whole have for him, and no amount of spilled blood or suffering will make amends for his sins? With the ocean gently lapping at his scarred toes, it almost feels like being watched by something great and powerful. But it’s just water. Nothing more. He shifts gingerly onto his side, allowing a few more moments to rest before he would carry on. Not that there was a plan or path to take, but like a shark if he stopped moving for too long, he would perish. Of that, he was sure.

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Magnus, even since joining Vermeda, would return to the sea frequently - even if it was just to spend a little time. The Brook was comfortable, and Aquila, Talisa and the rest of the Valour/Greyflood family had been good to welcome him. It was not the coastline, though; it was not with him. Often, he would bitterly regret not holding on to the Lagoon for longer; he was aging, but he failed to see that as a good excuse. He had put too much pressure on Saga, and now the consequences had come back on them. It was all too much of a din, and he would seek solace in the tide, moving close enough for his toes to submerge in the icy waters. For a moment, he was oblivious to any other presence on the beach; it was quiet, comforting. And then he turned, catching movement in his peripheral. A large figure ambling further along the coastline; maned, presumably male. He stands and stares for a moment, jaw slacking once the shape grew closer and details became easier to pick out. A scent blew to him on the wind.

He blinked.

“Fálki?”

Surely not?

@Fálki

irish

cast all our sins into the ocean He should not be surprised when his uncle’s voice filters through the wind, greeting him like an unwelcome visitor. He knows the other Sigrun are here - and this is the goddamn beach. Like flies to rancid meat, they are attracted to the ocean. He can’t criticise really - he is, after all, here as well. Perhaps there is no escaping the blood in his veins. Falki steels away the fear and anxiousness that rises up when he turns to look over his shoulder and sees @Magnus standing there. Older, scarred, but definitely his mother’s brother. A dozen memories flash before his eyes - crawling upon the giant’s shoulders, attacking his tail and later, sparring lessons, warfare tutorials. Magnus had always seemed larger than life, an imposing figure. That has not changed in the years Falki has been gone. But fear makes the wolf look bigger. "Magnús frændi," Falki murmurs, pushing himself up onto his paws. Black sand falls from his scarred hide as he shifts, uncomfortable under the older man’s gaze. He would bet that the man does not know - if he did, Falki would be dead already. There would not be conversation beforehand. And he is betting it - his life is the prize. That does not mean he is not anxious; his aunt had not known him, but Magnus clearly does. So it is a matter of time before all of them know, and his mother - if she knows he is alive, and knows what he did…

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