It's late in the day for new arrivals--already into the evening, past sunset--but Caleb combs the beach anyway. He's less looking for someone than he is just trying to clear his head, but as his luck would have it, he finds someone anyway.
And maybe...maybe he should have expected this. There are so many of his friends here, so many people with connections to one another--why should it only be the Nein who arrive from Wildemount? Why not others they know? (Why not others he knows?)
There is, of course, the usual cocktail of complicated emotions: surprise, wariness, fondness, regret, longing, love. But this time there is also immediate concern, which proves most prevalent. Eadwulf is sprawled on the sand on his back, still soaked from dragging himself out of the waves. And despite everything, Caleb can do nothing but go to him immediately.
His knees sink into the sand beside him, and he reaches for his nearest hand--both familiar and changed, but still that much larger than his own.
"Wulf," he murmurs, and extends his other hand to brush waterlogged strands of very short jet-black hair from Wulf's forehead as he ascertains just what state he's in. He speaks Zemnian automatically. "You look exhausted."
just slides this in here
And maybe...maybe he should have expected this. There are so many of his friends here, so many people with connections to one another--why should it only be the Nein who arrive from Wildemount? Why not others they know? (Why not others he knows?)
There is, of course, the usual cocktail of complicated emotions: surprise, wariness, fondness, regret, longing, love. But this time there is also immediate concern, which proves most prevalent. Eadwulf is sprawled on the sand on his back, still soaked from dragging himself out of the waves. And despite everything, Caleb can do nothing but go to him immediately.
His knees sink into the sand beside him, and he reaches for his nearest hand--both familiar and changed, but still that much larger than his own.
"Wulf," he murmurs, and extends his other hand to brush waterlogged strands of very short jet-black hair from Wulf's forehead as he ascertains just what state he's in. He speaks Zemnian automatically. "You look exhausted."