There is a large driftwood log that has washed up at some point, and is weathered enough to be smooth to sit on without risk of splinters. Skellig makes a quick 'hop' over to it and takes a seat, perching himself lightly on it as he watches her explore. He appreciates the warmer temperature here, and allows his wings to spread freely, stretching them out.

"I do not know the name of that one," he says. "But there are shells here, among the sand. Sometimes interesting rocks, and bits of glass that has been worn smooth by the water and washed ashore."