Dawn was breaking on the bay shore when the wreckage began to move. The broken rowboat had washed up silently the previous night, brought in by the tide. The bow was splintered; probably dashed against one of the rocks where the wide river fed into the bay. Fallen half out of the boat with legs in the water, a form shivered as the slow onset of consciousness made him aware of the morning chill. Scrunching his eyes shut, he dimly wondered where his blanket had got to, and turned his head to better bury it in his folded arms. The motion caused the abrasion on his left temple to graze against the side of the boat he was leaning over, and two very pale turquoise eyes shot open at exactly the same speed as the bedraggled, brown and white feathered wings on his back reflexively spread out; sending the same shock of a bone re-setting down from the top of his spine. He found his lungs empty, or he would have cried out as he floundered to straighten his stance, stars swimming before his eyes as another wave of the morning tide propelled him and what was left of his craft to the shore, where the boat thudded into the sand and his chest thudded into the boat. It didn't help much that his hair had fallen into his face and he couldn't see hardly anything. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his senses became fuzzy as he sank back down on the boat. He felt cold, he felt confused, he felt battered and sore, and far too dizzily occupied with these concerns to make another attempt at standing up or looking around. He groaned quietly, his fingers tingling as he dropped to the side of the boat, still in the water up to his waist. He kept his eyes closed, sparks still dancing under his eyelids. On his temple, a wound was trickling blood, although most of it had clotted, staining the white-blond, matted hair along the side of his face. His apparel wasn't much better off; ornate shoulder guards made of some iron-like material - one dented - partially covered a simple shirt, made of a simple white cotton. There was a belt and scabbard at his waist, the latter caught on a bit of wood from the boat, but the weapon it had once held was nowhere to be seen. His feet were bare, as were his hands, arms, and one leg from the knee down where his trousers had torn. Most of him was bruised, some of him was cut, all of him hurt as he inhaled the smell of wet sand and waited for the world to stop spinning.