Sand was a lot like stone in many ways, Sandal decided, carefully and precariously balancing a handful of the soft pinpricks of rock on top of the other handfuls. It was made up of the safe stuff, a hundred thousand tiny little pebbles, so small and so soft as to barely be stone at all; yet he felt it in his hands, brown-sugar and warm, and it sounded like Stone.
He grinned back over his shoulder. The Knight-Commander was on her blanket, sunglasses perched on her nose and her paperback in hand. (He had looked at it, briefly, but the words made little sense. He could read them well enough, but they weren’t true.) She looked stoic, grumpy even, but he could hear the contented murmuring notes matching the hush of the waves on the beach, and he gave her a large grin before turning back to crouch over his sand.
The mound of sand didn’t look like much of anything, to be honest. He cast a glance down the beach, watching as children of varied ages and races played in it—burying each other, building grand castles made of cones and blocks and buckets, digging deep holes to fill with shells and pebbles and tiny captured crabs. He tilted his head as he stared at his nondecript pile, and stuck a finger in the side of it, making a hollow cave.
not a Smith, no ear for new Stone
With an over-long, over-loud sigh, he pushed the pile of pinprick pebbles, spilling them haphazardly back among their fellows, and stood. He brushed wet sand from his hands, his knees, and went back to join Meredith on the blanket, setting himself on the edge carefully so that his sandy feet didn’t kick their grainy tagalongs on the warm cotton.
He watched her for a moment, then looked back out at the ocean, at the huge expanse of sky, seagulls wheeling and shrieking in the air. All around was the smell of salt and Stone, and the ruckus of the gathered crowd nearly managed to drown out the Song in his ears and hands. He sat in contented silence, letting her read; until a different song broke through the heavy afternoon air, a jaunty tinkling tune that could only mean one thing.
Children’s cries and laughter shrieked to a higher pitch, matching the gulls, and he turned his head so fast it nearly made him dizzy to stare at Meredith with an enormous grin.
Even to Meredith herself it was a mystery how she had been convinced into this.
’A nice, relaxing trip to the beach,’ the Champion had promised. 'You really need that, Commander. I swear my friends won't bother you with questions about mages and templars!'
Well, Hawke was right about that she needed a break, but wouldn’t a nice walk in a shady forest have been a better idea than sitting on a beach and trying not to get sunstroke?
The sun shined bright, warming the sand unbearably hot and making walking on it harder than on pieces of still burning charcoal. The cool sea water looked alluring, but Meredith knew better than to hop in; Water played tricks, reflecting the rays of sun, and all she would gain was burned face and shoulders and that she did not want.
And of course Hawke and her merry band of misfits had left somewhere, leaving her to babysit this strange dwarven boy. Or—when Meredith thought of it more—perhaps this was good; The boy was rather quiet and was more interested in playing with sand than irritating her, unlike the Champion’s other friends.
Though when Meredith’s eyes rose from her not so interesting book, she found the boy staring at her with the widest grin she had ever seen. She placed down her book and took of her sunglasses, squinting at the bright light.
"…Is there something you need?" the blonde asked after a while of staring right back at him with a confused look.
