Cerulean Cape we have always known how to be monsters

[table width=85%][tr][td]

Atlan calls him home, yields his tenacious efforts with clear reward. Axolotl crests the meld — where the land of Totoka River bleeds into the sands of Cerulean Cape. The Atlanian is immediately greeted by the much missed briny scent of sea water. It fills his nostrils as he draws in a greedy breath of it. His strides are purposeful and do not slow until solid earth gives way to the soft ply of sand underfoot. It is warm and it shifts around his paws, slowing his pace out of his own desire to take it in and because each step causes his paws to sink in as sand is quick to fill the temporary void he has created threatening to swallow his paws whole if he would let it. A ball of tension that Axolotl had not even realized he’d been carrying within loosens and he is left with the distinct feeling of relief; as if an immense weight has been lifted from his shoulders as glacial gaze drinks in the sight of the crystal clear sea water. The frothy waves beckon him as they crash against the shore, calm. The distance of beach is quickly diminished as Axolotl charged willingly, unafraid into the sea water pushing further. The current is strong despite the halcyon mood of Atlan and the waves offer some resistance but he pushes past them as they crash around his neck. He paddles for a moment before he sucks in a breath and dives under the next incoming wave swimming further out to sea only to breach the surface of the water a few seconds later and suck in a breath that fills his lungs with the heady and prominent scent of sea water. He has missed this. He has missed the sea, he has missed Atlan. The coast is where he belongs; he is home ...as tentative as that may be, he acknowledges as he stands upon a sandbar so that he is looking at the beach shoulders now above the water as it laps around him as if he is a fixture in Atlan's domain that they are so used to that they simply ignore his presence; or accept it as if he is apart of them.

[/td][/tr][/table]

Again Kitsch dispersed from the Neverwinter Forest, having been nurtured into something more bold and dauntless since the happening, sculpted beneath West’s potters hands.  Libeccio provided a welcome sense of consistency, but he played more of a supporting role – and she never felt entirely at ease when she was alone with him. Having matured somewhat in the past several months, the pearl could recognize that this had nothing to do with Libeccio and had everything to do with herself – but still.
 
The pearl was pulled not south, but north. She never really went south anymore; she didn’t like it and the entire place was shrouded in a miasma of bad memories and the stench of him; so why would the princess subject herself to it? Even though the memories of it had faded somewhat [the poppy had been quite strong], it seemed that Kitsch was destined to live a life upon the spit of land, stuck between the confines of the invisible southern borders [that she was loathe to cross] and the impenetrable sea.
 
So, Kitsch explored where she could.
 
There was a well-worn path that the pearl had discovered that paved her way directly to the waters – had this not existed, Kitsch might had not found her way – but soon she was staring at the lapping tide and [after a moment’s reprieve] redirected herself even farther north, tracing the water’s edge with her paws and edging closer with every dancing step. And then suddenly – a man!
 
Upon spotting him, the girl’s heart fluttered with a sudden shot of adrenaline and she skittered across the sands to the nearby tree line and tucked herself up against the roots of the nearest one. Then she watched from afar, partially obscured by a thick, coastal fir and not entirely sure that she had escaped unseen; but her stracciatella ears perked upon her head and her tail swayed lower between her hocks, indicating more of a coy interest than unwarranted apprehension.

thank you for joining! ♥

[table width=85%][tr][td]

Ears fan back against the crown of his skull as the water laps around him, a large forming wave lifting him temporarily off the sandbar before it passes and his paws find purchase against the rise once more. Axolotl knows he cannot stay in the water forever but — and not for the first time! — he wishes he could simply sprout gills and scales and become apart of Atlan’s domain like the beastie he is named for. The water is clear even as far out as he is and he shifts to side step a wad of seaweed that drifts past him, threatening to entangle his legs. There is movement out of the corner his eye and his head snaps up towards the beach where he sees a pale streak take off for the tree-line, spooked (he believed). Against the warm tan color of the sand the stranger stands out in contrast as they disappear into the shadows. The figure does not make a reappearance though Axolotl’s glacial gaze remains trained upon the place the pale creature dove behind. As her presence or lack thereof does not really concern him at all he brushes it off, assuming that the mysterious figure has moved on. He pushes off of the sandbar, swimming back to the shore where he splashes out of the sea’s depths and gives his varying coffee colored pelage a hearty shake to dispel the saltwater though he knows the salt will crust his fur over regardless. He continues a forth until he is clear of the greedy tide’s reaching edges and gives his coat a second shake, alerted by the pale figure’s presence and the uncertainty if they lingered or had been entirely chased away.

[/td][/tr][/table]

:D

He had noticed her, she saw it in the way that his gaze was trained on the spot, not yet seeing her shadow-obscured form, but alerted to the fact that he hadn’t been alone. Turning to investigate, the man continue to wade about in the waters and Kitsch watched as he rocked with the waves, seemingly one with the pelagic drumming. He came closer — closer — closer still! Then he was out of the waters, shaking to rid himself of the clinging dampness. The pale girl’s heart fluttered wildly, unsure what to do now that he was acting upon his suspicions. But now Kitsch found that her ink-dipped toes wouldn’t work and fleeing was not an option. 

Though the pearl was fearful of him and his brown pelt, [eerily similar to another’s arboreal shades of auburn], her curiosity won out. With quick, kittenish movements she scampered from the base of her tree to one that was closer, obscuring herself amongst the roots in a similar fashion as before. It was a certainty that the brute had seen her, but keeping her presence concealed was no longer the point. Surely, this man could be reasoned with if he indeed meant her harm. She just had to get closer, but her flighty heart had not gotten to the point where it stilled enough for her to do so.

[table width=85%][tr][td]

Axolotl’s gaze is drawn back to the tree, watching with glacial eyes as she — he could smell her now and the pheromones she put off in her fear — as she skittered from the tree she’d originally taken shelter behind to another tree’s shadow this one closer. Definitely corporeal and not a spirit, then, though she is certainly pale enough to pull off the role of spectre if she wished to don it. In the presence of Atlan, separated from his deity as long as he’d been to make this journey has the unpredictable mood of the Atlanian placated. As if Atlan is a sedative to his raptorial personality; though they can easily encourage it to rise if territory and claim is being threatened. Not that he is claiming this Cape. The leviathan has no interest in that. It is neutral territory and he seeks simply to enjoy all that Atlan has to offer. Axolotl feels halcyon, now, amidst a low burning curiosity towards the woman who hides.

Well, perhaps she is not hiding so much now. He has seen her and smells her now and knows she is not an illusion: she is corporeal; but Axolotl believes that Atlan is a master of “fate” and that this is presage though to what eludes him. He remembers the distinct hint of pheromones that tease of fear and wonders if she “hides” because there is something physical and imposing between them. A shield between him and her though he does not move from his spot upon the dry sand just out of the reach of Atlan’s grasping waves. “I will not hurt you.” The sea monster speaks, deep voice like whisky steeped in smoke breaching the contemplative silence. He does not implore her to come out. If she feels safer behind the tree then that is all good and well. He does not expect her to take him at his word. As a shaman he is drawn to the darker mysteries of life, to what her perceives to be magic of the world; she certainly presents him with a mystery.

[/td][/tr][/table]

A subtle tremor ran down her legs that could not be helped and the small girl shuffled to the side, inching her way entirely behind the wooden trunk and tucking herself up into it, resembling a pearl amongst the dark, mossy loam of the humectant earth. From the safety of her concealment, the girl stilled her heart with several carefully controlled puffs of breath and wondered, again, if she should make her departure.

But then he spoke and his roughhewn tone somehow calmed her ragged soul; perhaps it was the way she could not only hear his words but feel them, and he bade her safety, but Kitsch didn’t know if she trusted him… but oh she wanted to! Shifting her tanglement of legs, Kitsch peeked over her downy shoulder and past their arboreal barrier to glimpse upon the man who spoke but did not move closer. 

He was a leviathan, standing amongst the tide as if he was born of the waves. Such a sight drew the naiad forth and with slow, catlike movement she crept out from the behind the tree, placing one stracciatella paw in front of the other until she was several paces away from her harborage and on complete display. Suddenly feeling quite exposed, Kitsch’s ears splayed back she dropped her belly to the sand, hunkering down and smirching her pale pelt in a light, dusting of sand in the action. From there, her imploring, watchet gaze met his and silently questioned his truthfulness.

[table width=85%][tr][td]

His words contravene the salty brine of the Cape, a low, rasping sound that rise over the gentle crash of the sea behind him, the words lingering in the space between as he imagines she contemplates their sincerity. Though Axolotl hardly expects her to know it, if he was in a mood, if he had intentions of harming her he’d have made his move already. With his unpredictable temperament as raptorial and unforgiving as Atlan’s own his moods are often volatile but he has learned ways to combat them, ways to vent them in a healthy manner. Regular spars help him, too. If he is wasting that energy his moods are less likely to change so abruptly without warning. He watches as she creeps from behind her shield, reminding him of a skittish child. She is no child, mind; she is a woman grown that much he can tell. Age is not relative to him beyond child and elder both of which are easy enough to tell. He takes a moment to observe her, glacial gaze giving her a careful once over, content that he detects no scent of illness upon her pelage which he sees is not fully pale as he first assumed it to be. It is broken by a bit of black: two dots above her eyes and at the tip of her tail. She sinks down to the warm sand underfoot, her ears slicking back against her skull looking up at him with doe eyes that beseech. The
Atlanian is bewildered by this behavior for are they not both lone wolves? Is this Cape not neutral territory? Salmon pink tongue leaves his parted lips to draw across his jowls, a muscle in his ticked cheek jumping as he contemplates; he does not move and does not implore her to stand. It matters little what she does. He is not her superior and if she feels safer down upon the sand — though his tactical brain picks apart all the ways that she is now at a disadvantage while noting the few advantages she had from her position — then it is certainly not his place to judge.

The silence, however, feels a bit awkward to him. He is not sure what to do with it, what to do with her now that he has, somehow, managed to coax her out of her hiding spot. Nor is he sure why she even made a full appearance at all. “I am Axolotl Corten.” He offers her his name after some debate because it is the cordial thing to do, he knows, despite that the Atlanian isn’t always known for cordial behavior. It wasn’t exactly a trait that the feral warrior shamans shared. The legend of Nootka Sound is that when they are blessed by Atlan with the title they take a part of the sea into themselves. Twice, Axolotl has been blessed by Atlan, first when the deity nearly drowned him and again when they welcomed him as an Atlanian. “This Cape is very beautiful, isn’t it?” He asks, glacial eyes leaving her to glimpse around. Small talk was never much of a strong suit with him, either.

[/td][/tr][/table]

There was a silence that she did not mind — for in silence, there was peace — but the man deigned to fill it with his introduction. The leviathan had a name and that name was “axolotl” she whispered underneath her exhale, tasting the exotic digraphs upon her rosehip tongue. It was dynamic and reminded her of her own calling; and in this, Kitsch took some sort of solace. The vice grip of her ears against the base of her skull loosened and fell away and ever so slowly moved to perch upon the top.

“I’m Kitsch”

He made a reference to the cape around them — the two were nestled between the promontory and the sea, and both threatened to engulf them; the man found power, but she was made to feel small by it, by him. The kitten distractedly kneaded her paws into the sand, working to pat down two small indents upon the beach. Kitsch wished West was there; but at the same time, was glad West wasn’t. “Yes,” she avouched, the aquamarine of her eyes made brighter by the reflective nearness of the tide. Axolotl seemed kind enough to make conversation with her [the strange man hadn’t] so she would reciprocate. “You… live here?”

tagging for reference! :D

[table width=85%][tr][td]

The Atlanian is not sure her nerves have settled any but he watched her as he watched the tide: beseeching of any change that might give indication of change. Granted, he is much more familiar with Atlan and their swift changing moods than he is a woman’s expressions. He grapples here and now for what is a mystery to him, a riddle he thinks he may never understand. @Ixchel has been a constant presence in his life (has sort of raised him) but she is flesh and blood and he is blessed with the ease of knowing her cues. His whole life thus far has been spent in devotion to Atlan and serving them, acting as their mortal voice above the scream of a vicious storm or the lullaby croons of low tide and thus like a monk he is isolated from much. Kitsch, she introduces. “Kitsch,” He repeats testing it vocally out upon his smooth tongue, tasting it’s syllables and how they rise and fall as they spill forth from betwixt his lips.

Axolotl draws in a soft breath as he watches her knead the sand — a curious gesture he surmises but he does not capitalize upon it, instead focusing up her inquiry which comes after she agrees with the beauty of the Cape. Axolotl is easily smitten with any coastal territory. It could be barren of food and besmirched with black, burnt sand and he would be fond of it so long as it kept him in close proximity to Them. To Atlan. He contemplates her question. The answer is hardly so simple for him as a definitive yes or no. He lives where ever Atlan dwells. He would live within the Sea if he could sprout gills and survive beneath it’s waves without oxygen — but alas that is not a realistic option and he is suffice to settle with little other choice. He has called three packs home in his life but now he calls no pack family and no place home. “I live where ever Atlan dwells,” The leviathan gestures to the sea with his muzzle so that Kitsch might better understand. This is vague but it, too, will have to suffice.

[/td][/tr][/table]

He clarified that, no, he was not from here; but the name that fell from the man’s lips was unknown to the pearl. She cocked her head to one side as if it look at the ocean with a newfound perspective, velvet ears flopping against the lilt of her skull.”Atlan?” she questioned hesitantly, extending her neck towards the sea and lifting her black, button nose to sniff at the briny air. This ocean off of this cape smelled no different than any regular ocean — not that she had ever seen another ocean. The girl was a forest wolf through and though; she was quite accustomed to the bounty that wooded inlands provided, even if she never hunted it herself.

The girl’s body followed her nose and she rose from the stand, drawing herself up to her full height since the beginning of their meeting [as diminutive as that height was]. Kitsch took one step, then two steps towards the tide until the lapping waves licked and kissed at her ink-dipped toes. She turned to look over a gamine shoulder and questioned further. “Atlan… is a fish?” The princess was as unaccustomed to religion as she was to servitude; her parents were pious in name only and did not feel the need to punish her with stringency, and only ever wanted to pamper her with handouts.

Axolotl watches her reaction to him speaking of Atlan, naming Them as if he expects any one else to know whom and what he speaks of. He doesn’t, not in truth. The leviathan does not expect that Atlan bears different names across the lands. Atlan is simply one of the many; specific to Nootka Sound and their shamanic religion that worships the Sea. He watches as she draws nearer, stopping when the waves lap at her paws and asks a question that could have easily been taken as offensive to the leviathan. Axolotl contains the urge to be indignant but it is thinly veiled. She does not understand and she cannot be faulted for her ignorance. Axolotl knows this but that does not cull the stunning smart of calling Atlan: mighty creator of everything a fish. “No,” With a temperament as ever changing as the sea that stands at his back Axolotl’s patience is forced, tone strained with effort to keep himself in check as he responds to her question. “Atlan is a god. They are the Sea.” He explains, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls with a slight twitch of his tail. As an Atlanian it is a duty to educate even when insults are unknowingly and unmeaningly made.

”oh,”

Kitsch gave a small, childlike sigh when Axolotl stated that he did not worship some fantastical fish god — it hadn't been plausible, but the pearl had found some amusement in the vivid mental imagery a fish god stirred. In fact, the idea was so hilarious that she stifled the giggle that bubbled in her chest, throwing up a small, ink-and-salt stained paw to press against her lips and block the noises from coming out. The leviathan was not going to hurt her, but that did not necessarily mean he was a nice man. He had won her over with his stalwart nature and crooning baritone, but the fear was still there — and to laugh a man about his god… yes, that was something to be afraid of!

Had the pearl been a more perceptive wolf, she might have noted the choleric minutia in his words — even without such social cues, Kitsch had no problem latching onto a new part of their exchange. She listened, ears perched eagerly on the top of her crown, appearing to be the picture of cherubic curiosity as the brute explained atlan’s actuality. The sea, a god? The giant lake of poison water that was loud and smelled bad? It was not much better than the fish god. 

“A god, in the sea?” the kitten spoke incredulously. The connection to the ocean was a reach for Kitsch, but it was not the only factor in Kitsch’s questioning. Kitsch knew things, things that a man like Axolotl could never understand — and one of those things was god was a lie.  Kitsch knew, in her heart of hearts, that god didn’t exist. She had looked the devil in the face and knew it to be true; for what god could let such cruelty fall upon her? upon anyone?  A god, aqueous or not, would never sanction such atrocity — so, it was easier to shut down that part of herself and simply choose not to believe; that none of it was real. 

If Kitsch gave any more thought to it, she would realize that the idea of being alone and insignificant in a godless universe was terrifying — but that realization had not come to her yet. 

“That sounds…” her voice trailed off as she tried to summon the right words, as to not offend him and prematurely end their meeting. “Well, I...” She knew the etiquette and decorum, as the conventions of Saio Baile had been carved into her brain at a young age — but without advisors and other benevolent figures to hold her feet to the proverbial fire, such lessons were lost on the girl. Out here, Kitsch tried to do as she was instructed, to conduct herself in a fashion fit for aristocracy, but she was constantly left with the lingering resentment that she was doing something —everything—  wrong. As such, Kitsch’s next question spilled from her lips almost as soon as her mind thought it up. 

“Is Atlan a mean god?”

Atlan is not so easy to define as the great power of perception and interpretation the wolves of Nootka Sound and practitioners of the faith are freely given. “Some believe so, yes,” He gives a slight pause. “others believe that Atlan is the Sea.” In reality, it all depended upon the wolf in question. Axolotl himself had never bothered to try to fit Atlan into a singular form but rather accepts Them as They are: infinite and powerful. How could one possibly contain the power of the Sea into a singular, much smaller form then the one Atlan currently takes? “Belief is not for everyone.” He believes but it is not required that anyone else believe or even understand; and he does not hold their lack thereof against them. “Atlan is neither good nor evil. They simply are.” A similar speech he has given to many prior to her. “Somedays They are generous and others They are cruel and merciless. Their nature is unpredictable, untamable and ever changing.” And he is much the same he has found, though whether he takes after a parent in this regard or he “borrows” it from his deity he does not know; it doesn’t really matter.

Kitsch listened, her pale lips pressed into a wary line. 

“If you can’t predict it, then why bother?” the question, potentially offensive in its skeptical nature, was spoken honestly and with earnest. These concepts had always frustrated her, even when she was a cub and was being trained in the religion of her people. Daily lessons had beaten the interest and youthful desire to learn from her and she became quite lazy where areas of piety were concerned. It was no matter; she only needed to uphold a pious facade, and no layperson would ever be the wiser — but somehow Kitsch hadn’t been able to handle the small task and her tutors were always left wanting more.

Again — it was easier for the kitten to shut down that part of her soul than to face the shortcomings that lay there. It wasn’t exactly fair. How could Axolotl could he derive such happiness from life while she could not even grasp at it? Kitsch could never say that she didn’t always have melancholy tendencies, she surmised that she had experienced more melancholy-inducing experiences than anyone else she met and it wasn’t fair that life would do that to her! If there was a god after all, he was certainly quite cruel.