If it wasn't clear yet, Kwe'tau was in utter denial about his status as a lost boy in a new world. He continued to carve away at the dirt until shapes emerged, intent on putting down some kind of message for any passers-by that might recognize it; this pidgin language of sigils, known to most who lived in the Forgelands, would surely be of great value here.

As parts of the earth cut free and fell away, he came to the realization that the wall here was too soft. The water had eroded much, and there was no use in him trying to do anything! As parts crumbled, he caught sight of something strange—an ember, he thought at first. It was a stone set with a sigil of its own, the kind he had never seen before. It sprang loose as if alive, then tumbled in to the water!

Oh! He lunged for it, but no, it was just out of his grasp—and sat bobbing there, and sinking moments later. Then, there was a bark.

Kwe'tau looked sharply towards that sound. It was lighter, sharper than the rumble of the falls. He looked utterly manic; eyes wide, ears big and round and forward. I need that rock! He all but screeched, and then dove for the stone in the water.