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.

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.

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.

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.

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.