As the clouds of the early summer rainstorm swept away, a young man stood on a stone covered beach staring out at the ocean. It called to him as it did to nearly all of his family. He ran his hands through his curly golden locks, pushing them back out of his face before turning to look at the docks and the great ships moored there. His hands itched to be climbing the rigging and his bare feet running across the decks.
"Davian," a familiar voice called, "you had better not even be thinking what I think you're thinking!"
The man rolled his ocean blue eyes, turning to look up the beach at a woman standing with her hands on her hips, her long chocolate brown hair being pulled from its braid by the wind. There were bits of gray mixed with the brown now, but he would never be the one to mention it.
"And what is it that you think I'm thinking, mother?" he asked with a smirk.
