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It is lucky, then, that Negative sings with all the gracelessness of a child -- when most of the Tidewalkers would ignore that in lieu of demanding where Negative has come from, one of them is more or less entranced by the song and the strange accent. She weaves her way through the salt-crusted trees, from the last stretches of mudflats to the borders of actual Tidewalkers lands: rocks and mangroves bear the sigil of Tidewalkers (and both the X for 'unsafe' and the O for 'welcome') when the last mud gives way to clean, warm white sand.

Negative has found the beach; at the same time, Thunderstruck has found Negative.

A slim doe suddenly appears before him, stepping out from behind the wind-chiseled trunk of a mangrove long since felled by hurricane winds. She is white and buff and brown, the exact colors of the sand; only what appears to be a spreading red wound across her face mars her delicate coloring. She is thin and lean, sculpted by a hard life, but she doesn't appear weak.

Her voice is direct, but inquisitive, and a little charmed: "Who are you?"

"That's the ocean," Thunderstruck explains with an air of patience that seems perfectly natural. She isn't trying to muster up some reserve of patience: she is naturally prone to calm explanations and measured speech. She shrugs, turning around to regard it, herself: it becomes nearly invisible when one sees it every day. "I'm Thunderstruck."

A moment later, she blinks: and suddenly becomes aware of what he must be looking at. Normally functioning with a complete lack of self-awareness, the doe has to pause a moment to smile -- "I'm not hurt. It's just my fur. A birthmark. Are you hungry? Longstride and Jasper hauled a fish out of the surf. There might be some left." It's not entirely like the Tidewalkers to openly offer such hospitality, for fish big enough that it takes two to haul it out of the surf are rare, and protein is hard-won. But Thunderstruck is thoroughly enamored of the buck's accent, so unlike Longstride's own.

As she turns to walk back down to the beach from the small rise they stand on, something chitters and rustles from the underbrush next to Negative, and a small mongoose leaps out of the bushes, bounds to the doe, and with another leap is riding on her shoulder, chattering merrily.

Thunderstruck wouldn't accept trinkets anyway -- at least, nobody would expect her to. She sleeps on a bare patch of sand, and her lean form is skinny even by Tidewalkers standards. Waterside affectionately calls her 'the little nun,' though only out of earshot. "Oh, that's alright. The sea air tends to eat through most vegetation anyway."

The mongoose, stilled to silence by the strange furred kimeti's accent and appearance, walks across Thunderstruck's back to her rump, and stares at Negative with an intensity that might be a bit odd from a mongoose. It, too, is fascinated.

Thunderstruck whistles, a single long note, like a bird call, and is answered a moment later. She squints as they emerge onto the beach proper, where the sun is dazzling; it paints a bright burning trail over the water. They are both suddenly assaulted by the smell of fish (and offal, for all that they have tried to keep things tidy). The mongoose, smelling this bounty, leaps off of the doe's back and is abruptly gone. "This is our beach. This is the ocean. I see it every day -- I guess I don't see it the way someone else would."

"I'm sure. You're with me. Bitterleaf doesn't mind visitors," she says, tossing her head as they descend down the beach into the bright sunlight. Another bird call whistles from the tree-line, in and among the tangled shadows of the mangroves, and Thunderstruck answers. Whoever sent the birdcall seems satisfied, as there are no more.

There are two kimeti standing next to the carcass of the shark, having been hidden by the angle at which Thunderstruck and her companion approached. One is dark teal, nearly black -- colored and banded much like the shark he eats. He does not look up from his meal, but shifts to gain a better purchase on something he is tearing away from the bone -- he is a well-built buck, muscled and lean like all the Tidewalkers.

The other is a stag: lean and rangy, all whipcord muscle, and of similar coloring to Thunderstruck. There is no family resemblance between the three of them until one notices subtle touches: glowing blue markings on the dark buck and stag that pulse in time with their heartbeat, and all of them have blue eyes. The stag picks his head up to watch them approach; a moment later the buck does as well, with a soured expression, as if he has bitten into gristle.

Thunderstruck blinks, and then looks sideways to Negative: "I don't think they'll mind -- Longstride and Flint." And then, in a low tone of voice, "Don't take Flint personally. He's -- hard-hearted."

The stag is the first to speak: his voice is as if he's swallowed gravel, hoarse and throaty. It may very well be adapted to charm the horns off of any doe he comes across. "Who's your friend?" It is both innocent question and challenge.

It's not entirely like Thunderstruck to bring in guests. It's about as normal as Flint deciding to bring someone to the beach. For a moment Longstride stands, considering, the only movement he makes a slow lash of tail from side to side; then, just as casually as his greeting, he tosses his head to one side. The movement is done with a complete lack of conscious thought, and it sends his long, sun-bleached and sea-tangled blonde hair out of his eyes. "Come and eat. There's enough for everyone. These two are my children," he adds, referring to Thunderstruck and Flint.

Flint opens his mouth, looks to his sister -- seems to think better than to cross her -- and then takes a step back from the giant shark. It is as much a welcoming, encouraging gesture as he will ever make, in that it is not a direct goad or muttered insult.

Thunderstruck nods and walks closer to the shark, but does not eat: in fact, she gets no closer than a few paces away. Instead, she seems content to watch.

Longstride replies in ample good humor, shooting a look over the fish's exposed, white backbone: "You're breathing and it's not, so I'd say you're doing better than it is."

Which makes Flint snort; the sound echoes from within the fish's cavernous ribs, and the dark buck pulls back with a sudden tearing sound, chewing a mouthful of torn white flesh. "We've been eating it for two days. Well, we have. Thunderstruck doesn't eat meat." This is said in a tone that manages to be someplace between wonderment and contempt: he has no idea why anyone would deprive themselves of fish. Flint, for all of his hard seeming and hard name, loves the sea.

Longstride tosses his hair, regarding his son, and can only offer Negative a shrug. "Don't mind him, I think he's tired from late watch. Eat all you want. Do you care to see the beach after? I can take you on a tour of Tidewalkers lands."

Flint hmphs - "Try and keep up with him." And if that cryptic statement makes no sense now, it will.

Later on in the day, Longstride will find Negative wherever he happens to be, loping up to him in a long, ground-eating stride, kicking up sand at his heels. The sun has begun to sink down towards the horizon, spangling the sea with copper and gold. Around them, the Tidewalkers settle in to the business of evening: resting, storytelling, eating, and preparing for night's watch. The blonde buck appears as unruffled as he was before, though now there is a certain enthusiastic quality about him that may remind Negative of an eaglehound. All he's missing is the long tongue lolling out of his mouth and the rattle of feathers. "Are you ready to go?"