Gilded Bay When you gonna get grown?

Wylla was still cackling intermittently by the time she reached the coast, having greatly enjoyed the affront writ on the face of Tindome's lead male when she brought up his cajones. Admittedly, that had been rude even for Wylla—somewhere in her was a flicker of guilt for that, for the guy had seemed genuinely kind—but there was just something about following such young leaders that put a stone in her belly. As if they couldn't ever possibly be mature enough to make important decisions for a group. Hell, she wasn't even old enough to make important decisions for herself no matter how she denied it, much less for a whole, and being as self-involved as she was, Wylla naturally measured everyone in the world relative to her own self.

She hadn't realized how close she was to the coast before she descended a dune onto the cold strand itself. Wylla paused, swallowing back a tide of uncertainty that welled in her breast. She had been born and raised on the coastline, so she wasn't at all uncomfortable in the sand—in fact, after several missteps, she regained her rolling grace over the speckled shore with familiar ease—but the coast was like a little black box she had been trying her damnedest to ignore. She had been lost to the mainland for many moons, at least half her life if not longer, and part of her was afraid to go back to the coast.

After all, what if they forgot about her? What if life was better without her? Well, Lusca's life might have been, but what of Ingram? She strode along the strand with a confidence that didn't reach her soul, staring down at the dirty foam that rode up the sand and graced her paws with every crashing wave, thinking of it. What if the coast would swallow her whole because she had abandoned it for so long? Too late now, she thought sullenly as a gull's cry overhead drew her gaze upward.