Sea Lion Shores Rotten tropics by the sea

He had found a refuge inside of Saltwinter, and while he was incapable of expressing his gratitude appropriately, Kierkegaard was bound and determined to show it to the witch of the ocean. Caiaphas had saved him more than he cared to admit. While he had always found a way to drift apart from others, there was a gravitational pull back to the coywolf female. It would not be long before age would take a toll on his figure, and all of those years of travel would finally begin to weigh down on his body. The ashen brute did not know how long he would feel youth in his limbs. Already, the shape of his figure had taken on a serpentine look; he had strange dips in his muscle that had turned him into a gaunt and spectral sight to behold. The mercenary was fading into a true ghost.

Padding along the shoreline with his head held low and his fiery gaze trailing the tossing waves, Kierke released a heavy sigh from his inky lips. The Teekon Wilds did not feel like home to him. Then again, there had never truly been a place that had provided a sense of belonging for the wandering brute. As he had grown more haggard and damaged, he had found that long bouts of travel were more hazardous to his wellbeing than anything else. While he still longed to point his nose on unknown terrain and venture forth, the ghost knew that his years would be few if he sought that lifestyle.

If he had not been keeping his eye on the horizon, the ashen wanderer would have completely missed the inky speck in the waters. Once his vision had struck her, though, he halted in his tracks and sucked in a breath of surprise. For a second, he thought that he was looking upon a ghost. That was until he realized that he did not know the swarthy character in the waves. She might have held some familiarity, but she was just as much a stranger to him as the sea lions who waddled to shore. Still, there was something in the sharp angles of her body and the jagged lines of fur about her shoulders. He could not help but to stare.

The inky girl took note of his figure and the pale brute regarded her with narrowed brows over fiery golden-orange optics. It seemed – in that moment – that they were to hold each other only in sight. The ghost was interested, but not enough so that he might close the distance on the girl. Instead, he watched as she took a tentative step forward. The brute tensed and lowered his skull toward the sands. He knew enough of war to protect himself. The treading of the dark female was not made out of hostility, though; it seemed that she was approaching him on careful steps. There was something familiar in the amber of her eyes. Had he been a more verbose creature, he would have inquired if they had met once before. Kierkegaard was not certain that he would remember all of the wolves he had encountered in his life. He doubted many of them were still around. Yet, this girl caused his skin to prick with goosebumps and the jagged fur along his neck and spine to rise upward.

The haggard creature could almost scent her as she approached, and when he had decided that she had drawn herself close enough, he peeled his lips over jagged canines and issued a warning. The length of his ears swiveled atop his crown and the brute moved with his own step forward. The burning of his gaze did not leave the dark-furred girl. Kierkegaard watched and wondered what her next move would be. If she would decide to move closer, she would be met with a savage snarl.