Cerulean Cape the flung spray and the blown spume and the sea-gulls crying

This thread takes place May 24, 2017.

It is ENCOURAGED that characters wishing to join Undersea participate actively or respond with a short “roll call” post, but this thread is welcome to anyone!

Your character does not need to be in Cerulean Cape or Wheeling Gull Isle to make a roll call post. ♥

Instead of improving, conditions at the coast worsened by the day.

The torrential downpour from the distant hurricane and the gradual, consistent rising of the tides chewed up the strand from the Dragoncrest Cliffs to the Oystercatcher Tide Pools, scattering the seabirds and crowding the sea lions. Driven further inland as the breeding season reached fever pitch, the pinnipeds became increasingly territorial and aggressive.

The majority of the colony remained in the Sea Lion Shores, but clusters of them traveled as far north as Cerulean Cape and as far out to sea as Wheeling Gull Isle, dominating the southern coast of the island with swift ferocity.

Coincidentally, two territorial challenges broke out simultaneously.

On the southwestern coast of Wheeling Gull Isle, two inexperienced young bulls began their song and dance — a galumphing pair of heavy, slick bodies with sharply domed heads and mouths that cranked wide, barking and roaring insults. Some distance away, a small group of females looked on, the older females trying to look particularly unimpressed.

Meanwhile, in the Cerulean Cape, the situation was less comical.

The collection of females was larger — the pair of bulls older. Both of them bore heavy scarring on their sand-dappled, torpedo-like frames, and both of them were bleeding. One of them squinted, his eye so bloodied it was impossible to tell whether the wound involved the eye itself or the flesh above or around it, as he dove for his opponent with sharp fangs bared.

[table width=80%][tr][td]Instead of retreating, Ondine stayed close by the increasingly wild waves and the foaming heads they carried. Even rain did not make her turn her back on the sea - her white coat was drenched and even though the storm was not at its peak yet, she dared not enter the water like she had before. It was dangerous to be so close to Her now a storm was brewing, but she had no other place to go. She made her way along the coast, spotting the sea lions with terrified wide eyes. She was separated from them by a river, and that made her feel slightly safer. All she could think of was her little boy not lucking out like she had and being eaten by one of the large females. In a fit of hysteria and slight mental unstableness did she cower into the dangerous waters of the sea.

While Ondine had grown up near the sea, never had she learned to swim good or even acceptably well. Nearly immediately did she go under, breathing in sea water and hitting her head on a rock hard enough for her to see a flash of white before she fell unconscious. As a whale did she beach upon the shore of Wheeling Gull Isle, head wound colouring the sand an ominous red.

After some time, her mismatched eyes opened with a grunt of confusion, pain and exhaustion. She could not recall any event before waking up and was terrified to say the least. Pushing herself upon her paws did she try and remember, but all that had stuck with her were the herbs she was to use for her wound. Not even Arrille was a part of her memory now and all the sadness of losing everything had been, quite literally, washed away. Wet and weary did she go into the forest, picking as many plants that she recognised. In clean-water lake-kind of sliver on the land stood... cattail. Cattail... She repeated softly. Cattailll...[/tr][/td][/table]

The closer she came to the briny atmosphere that promised her the saltwater she craved, the more pressing and turbulent the pouring weather became. Each sunrise was darker than the last, taking only three or four days before the skies lost all of its blue to the swarming grey of the inbound storm. Ixchel was not deterred. The rise of the hurricane, paired coincidentally with her approach towards the ocean, only served to insist that this was the best choice she could make. This was just something to overcome—to endure—and should she survive, she felt that her imminent suffering would be well-compensated for rising above the sea-trial she had deemed to be hers alone.

Moving north was Coelacanth’s sole instinct, and she allowed it to rule her with or without the companionship of the wolves she’d recently come across. She had allowed neither of them to touch her, leaving the fresh punctures at her scruff a fertile breeding ground for bacteria and infection. At long last she’d bathed her face, revealing a mild case of conjunctivitis that rimmed her eyes in an angry pink and wept a milky white discharge, but self-care was honestly not a current priority for the tiny Groenendael.

Home! Under cover of darkness she’d struck out, following the map of stars, but when a wall of wolfscent began to coalesce in the cleft of the mountains she’d fled, retracing her steps. Panic and habit found her back at the lake where she bathed her face again, sluicing the infection from her Neptune eyes, and this time when she headed out, she headed west. North was home. West was freedom. Home!