Sated, a heavy leg thrown over one of silken black, horselord is in no hurry to disentangle himself from the siren.

“Looks clear.” He grunts, claiming an ear in quick possession before release.

Eyes raise to scan the sheer bluffs. “A determined man could scale them, but not after wrestling with the ocean.”

At last Batu rises to shake the grit out from his undercoat, wondering if this quick assessment is enough to appease Daiyu.

Not much a climber myself. She murmurs in response, lifting with a slow laziness and stretching out before taking a few quick steps away. I think I hear water fall. Just barely so and only when the waves were retreating back into the sea.

She presses her nose to the Mongolian man's cheek briefly and then pads off, not far. There is a little cove here. At (high tide) it would not be accessible without a little swim. Dangerous for those who did not know how to manage the pull of the sea. Yet right now at low tide, a path of sand allowed them to walk around to it.

It is beautiful, this little cove with the spill of two mare’s tails.

The mongol gait is alien here. This verdant fertile cape is contrasted to his endless, hilly country. He considers too the delicate step of the siren against a horselord’s squat stride.

“Sightly,” his teeth part. Doubtless, the tianlong would make some hallowed shrine of the place.