Casta looked around walking near the side of the beach. Her bow strapped to her back she looked to the sky looking at the setting sun. The orange glow seemed to paint the sky orange with it. She had always loved sunsets and the glow they make across the sky. She sat down in the sand letting the tide rush over her feet.

She was beginning to wander if she should leave this place behind. Nothing of interest has happened to her since her arrival. She dug her hands down in the sand felling the coldness it gave off.

Dunimir looked down from the white bluffs, as the sun steadily sank into the west. In his left hand he held a clay pipe, and he breathed thoughtfully at the leaf within. Steadily approaching from out of the north came a dark front, whose clouds had stained the evening a dark orange. Promise of rain, terribly bitter rain, to follow.
The ranger thought little or nothing of rain, raimed in proper oiled leather, which he tended as carefully as his own appetite. It was neither black nor brown, but a deep liquorice, embroidered, if subtly, with evocative patterns of health and happiness. Aside from his clothing, though, Dunimir possessed nothing, but for his education, and his freedom; for he had but begun the period of his danger-geld, in which he must enter into exile, and may not return home, until he had deemed the risk of exposing his hidden home was warranted, or earned.

Far below there was a woman, who seemed unaware of the oncoming storm. An archer, by the bow worn easily across the shoulder. Dunimir marveled that she hardly noticed the cold. Could she be one of the Forrochel, the folk of the frozen north, who thought of ice with no more discomfort than warm water?
He walked to the edge of the bluff. "Hallo!" he called out, until she could hear him. "Ware you the storm! Walk a little south of here, and into the grassy gulley there. I will wait for you there. I have shelter, and food! You will see me from the beach!"

Dunimir hurried down to the beach, and stood within plain sight, knowing that the archer would observe, with their long-sight, that he was unarmed, but for an honest hunting knife. He found himself quite excited. Perhaps he had spent too long wandering in strange valleys, and on abandoned coasts! Company would be welcome, and whatever adventure company might bring with it. He found himself smiling, and held out his hand as the archer approached.

Casta turned to the person who called from above. Only now had she noticed the on coming storm. The seagulls also seemed to be heading to shelter. She stood and headed south to where the man had told her to go.

When she arrived she looked at the man and smiled. A gold gust of wind sent a chill threw her and made her shiver.

"Hello." She said.

"Hello indeed!" Dunimir beamed, and held out his hand, to show the way up the gulley.
There was a clear path, which the archer picked her way up steadily, until they came to the concealed ledge near where the gulley opened onto the pleateau of the cliffs.
Here Dunimir, over many years of coming and going, had improved on a natural overhang, and shallow cave, with walls of stacked sod. Inside was a crude oven of clay, and a good roasting smell. They were perfectly able to stand upright, and to sit at swinging seats, at a table top that was also hung upon ropes from the mishapen ceiling.
Dunimir busied himself serving the roast, turning it out of an egg-shaped clay pot that had been resting upon the coals of the fire, and the firelight played over his grave face, lean from long years of exile, and thick with poorly shaven moustache and beard.
Still, he hummed as he worked, a content soul, and had served the roast upon twice-baked trenchers of rough bread.
He sat opposite the archer. "I'm Dunimir. Welcome to my shelter. Would you like anything to drink. I have honey-wine."