The morning air was heavy with moisture, it pressed down upon him, hot and heavy as he stirred awake from the den he had claimed as his own. Habitually, in a way that was nearly obsessive, he looked over his shoulder towards the back of the den with a sharp movement, fiery red-orange gaze rapidly taking in the small collection of skulls and assortment of bones he'd collected to be sure that the gangster had left them alone. After ensuring that nothing was out of place the sea witch let out an audible sigh of relief. Despite that the gangster appeared to be a moral beast of his word the sea witch was always dubious. It was no secret (of course not, sharing a mind and body as they did) that he was an unwelcome intrusion to the gangster but despite it all the gangster had yet to break the promises he made to Riptide. He didn't touch his cache of medicines and poisons and he didn't touch the morbid collection the sea witch kept at the back of their den. Still, he compulsively had to check: just to soothe his own anxiety about it.

He exited his den and caught the scent of a fox still fresh. He followed it and when he caught it tore into it without abandon after carrying it back to the small clearing his den was located in. The famine was known to Riptide but only in a way that it was known to someone who hadn't experienced it. There was customary pity towards the gangster who had to endure it but no true understanding. He had tore a hip bone from the body and suckled the marrow from it as an extra treat, worrying the bone with his teeth feeling it splinter beneath the sharp force of his jaw.

When he was content he rose with a stretch and went about his business for the day....though what particularly was on his schedule was yet unknown to the sea witch. His shallow wounds from his fall had scabbed over and were just about healed and the bruises beneath his coat had faded: his muscles no longer ached and thus he no longer had to treat himself; and his medicine (and poison) cache was coming along nicely and though it could always use improvement he wasn't so sure that he particularly wished to hunt up medicines or poisons. So, he made his way to the beach, the sand warm as his paws sunk into it. The gentle roar of the Sea kept the spirits' never ceasing whispers away and for that the sea witch was grateful. He supposed he could collect trinkets the Sea left upon the shore, perhaps gather some more seaweed to dry for it's health benefits. The morning was young, however, and he had time to decide what he wanted to do yet.

That day, the great inky titan had taken to the depths. The swell of the ocean had spoken to him and whispered promises of his past, so he had dutifully followed their sweet voices until his broad figure had been swallowed by the tumultuous waves and he had found peace beneath the surface of the water. The leviathan was proficient – to say the very least – in his natural habitat. He had grown in the swell of the sea and had known every inch of her terrible power in his youth. As he had been raised on the breath of war and changing tides, he also had been shown the way of the mystics who had looked kindly on him in the months prior. Things were falling into place, and the titan had found a strong brood to follow him into the depths of her body. Even the Fearghal had openly accepted the idea of the rituals and the blessings that would be bestowed upon the wolves of the pack. Skellige was feeling his own power once more.
 
The quiet churn of the water did well to settle his spirit, and as the brute sunk lower into the sea, he caught sight of the massive inky rock that occupied the bottom portion of the ocean. Even the liquid that surrounded it seemed to have a dark tinge, as though the rock was weeping into the depths and turning it a shade darker than it ought to have been. The black rock was a landmark for the leviathan; he sought answers from it, and had come to believe that it would lead him back to greatness. Fixing his russet vision on the looming shape that jutted from the sands like a fang beneath the water, he felt his heart increasing its beat and was forced to dart back to the surface to breathe in the brine of the air.
 
On the shore, a familiar sight caught his attention, and Skellige furrowed his brows tightly over his gaze at the shape of Arturo. It had been some time since he’d seen the diplomat, and while he was certain that the halfling was taking up his new role within their group, he had anticipated seeing more of his ally. Powerful strokes carried him back to the shore and once his wide paws had touched the sands, he felt the weight of his crown once more. Not bothering to shake the water free of his pelt, Skellige stepped toward the nautilus with an intensity rarely shown to others. “Arturo, what has made you so scarce as of late?” the titan rumbled to the male. Their time was drawing close, and the wraith knew that he would need all of his trusted ones present for the blessing of their lands and their official claim.

Riptide's fiery gaze moved towards the large Leviathan as the ebony beast drew near, his fur clinging to his stalwart body, heavy and soaked with the salt water that he had not bothered to shake free of his coat, Riptide observed. Skellige called out to Arturo, and for a moment the sea witch looked away, breath stolen away from in a bizarre moment that he wasn't quite sure what to make of. The Leviathan did not know of him — only of the gangster — but Riptide knew of Skellige. For a moment there was a rushing seethe of jealousy — that Arturo had known this magnificent titan before Riptide but the sea witch was quick to quell it. For once, the sea witch was at a loss of how to respond. He was not Arturo. Arturo was still around, of course, though there were those dark times that the sea witch wished fervently the gangster would ...vanish, like the last defiant breath of a flame that had been cut off from it's oxygen source. No doubt, Arturo had wished the very same thing of Riptide. Most days, Riptide didn't mind Arturo but the gangster was not always quiet and not always complacent. It was like fighting to push together two magnets whose polarities were the same, gave the same sort of results: it got them no where and was a sheer impossibility.

A soft giggle, a very unlike Arturo noise, left the sea witch's lips and a deep breath was taken. He squinted out at the sea for a moment, drawing strength from it. It had been horribly easy to snarl at that little girl that had found him that he was not her father, despite how she had pushed and pulled and insisted. A girl, green into her adulthood, hadn't phased him despite that he could have had more class with shattering her world (he did not) and yet this was where he struggled, beneath the heavy stare of the Leviathan, waiting for his response. Riptide was not sure if Doe had informed Skellige of his falls from Ravenshook Cliffs or not, or in truth, how Skellige would take this. Panic flooded Riptide then as he contemplated that this could go horribly awry and that he could find himself (and Arturo) homeless. It wasn't something he had considered before but now that he had it threatened to choke him.

Still, the sea witch knew he could not pull off the gangster. Arturo spoke with an accent that Riptide could not emulate, and there was much about the gangster that the sea witch simply didn't know. What was that ridiculous child's story? Of the egg that fell from the bridge and cracked his head and the king's men couldn't put him together again. Humpty-Dumpty or something of that effect. “A fall was taken at Ravenshook Cliffs, the gangster cracked his head and wasn't right again.” A snicker left Riptide's lips. Well, no one could ever claim that he was good with stories or breaking news, for that matter. “He's still in here,” The sea witch was quick to assure. “I've been collecting medicines and poisons, Leviathan. I am not sure what he does when he has control, though.” Riptide admitted, not bothering to pause long enough to give Skellige time to digest the oddity before him.