Axolotl draws in a deep breath, sensitive to the ambrosial scent of the tall grasses, of the warm aroma of the herds that graze without fear upon the golden heather as it sways in the gentle breeze. The only tang of salt lingers upon his pelage and there is little the Atlanian can do to erase it. The mere idea gives him panic for he has already been parted from Atlan before and though the leviathan of the sea takes it on faith that They understand because he is not a beast born from Their waters but he has found his deity once more and he deigns to stay close. His ilk is well adept at surviving off of seafood he cannot deny himself the succulent taste of venison or other large ungulates. He stands alone as the only Atlanian in these Wilds, the lone Harbinger as Their mortal voice. Atlan was calm when he left Stavanger Bay in the search of ungulate. It does not take him long to cross paths with a herd’s scent — fresh. He follows it, lowering himself into the shelter of the tall, golden grasses sinking belly against the earth as he studies the small herd of four for any sign of young or weak.

One is young, he notes, but the adolescent doe and two adults — a buck and a doe — form a protective triangle upon the long legged babe making it hard for him to take it down without surmounting grievous injuries to his body. He is a Warrior Shaman and on his faith he does not fear death but he does not have to fear something to want to avoid it. He gives up, rising quietly and skirting around the small family to head towards the heart of the pasture wondering if luck has yet abandoned him.

The sound of footfalls upon the earth, the rustle of golden grasses that does not come from the blissfully and ignorantly grazing herd draws forth the cup of ears atop Axolotl’s skull. Past the warm aroma of the ungulates, succulent and unfairly teasing but certainly not his only choice he flares black, leathery nostrils and drinks in the scents. Only stands out to him, new and nearby. It is enough to give pause to his steps, to cause his body to hesitate as he lifts his head and peers through the swaying grasses. There is a brief moment where he feels the impulse to simply keep going, to keep to his adapted plan: scope for a weaker, less protected ungulate further inland and return to the coast so he can once more bask in the glory of Atlan. His deity calls to him, beckons him like an insatiable lover. The scent is female and lone and he is reminded, very briefly of Kitsch though their scents are vastly different.

As are their appearances, the leviathan notes as his glacial gaze looks upon what he can see of her: which is that her pelage is made of scarlets set aflame, creams that remind him of the color of dry sand, smoldering ash and velveteen slate. He has never seen some so fire-kissed before and her is allured by the brilliance of her pelage and the leviathan turns away for a moment but pauses after a single step forth. The curse of having a temperament like the Sea’s leaves him with inability to ignore his impulses and it is a tug, an impulse that causes him to turn in her direction and let out a low chuff of greeting, careful not to startle the herd he has given up on but which she stares at intently.

A muscle beneath the Leviathan’s ticked cheek jumps as he watches her attention rise from the herd to him though he does not speak initially. It occurs to him that perhaps he should apologize for staring but on the topic of admiring her beauty, on her ash and fire forged pelage a brilliance of colors unlike any he can recall seeing in his life of browns, creams and inks Axolotl is unabashedly unapologetic. He has heard from the older males of Meares Island that women are like the Sea. The leviathan finds himself — as peculiar as the time is for such things — wondering if there is truth to those words. She certainly looks like she could be like his untamable deity: strong, fierce, harsh if given the opportunity to be so. Her guard remains up, he notes, as is the rise of her tail. The Atlanian acquiesces, relaxing his shoulders to show that he means no challenge of her. The Coast is his domain, where he feels the most powerful fueled by the command of Atlan and the authority being Their warrior shaman bestows upon him.

She returns his chuff with a hum that banks on the edge of being a purr and the leviathan’s ears cup forth, alert and rapt to her as he lingers upon the sound. It strikes the leviathan as unusual but undeniably pleasing all the same. She breaks the silence further than he and offers him words, a verbal greeting to accompany her soft humming purr. “Hey,” The leviathan replies his glacial gaze moving from her to the small herd for a moment before it goes back to her. It is not hard to put two and two together and after a moment he speaks, “I was going to head further inland to see if there was a hunting opportunity where the odds are more in favor,” Even for two of them he thinks it is too risky, as well protected as the long legged fawn is. “You’re welcome to join me.” He extends the invitation.

Axolotl waits in the moments between his invitation and her response uncertain. Not of his invitation but on whether or not she’ll accept. They are strangers, after all. There is, understandably, a level of caution to be held between them though he feels no weariness in her presence. Perhaps it is because he is Atlan’s warrior shaman and his social obligations are as great as his duties to the deity. Even On Meares Island he performed these obligations: blessings and rituals some of which involved strangers. Newcomers to the pack and escorted visitors alike and wee newborn babes that were wondrous strangers to the Island as a whole but he was the most raptorial of his fellow Atlanians, as if Atlan’s unpredictable nature siphoned from the sea to him. He is shaman but he is also warrior and his prowess and aggression in battle has always proceeded him. Now, in these foreign lands not so much.

Social obligations aside Axolotl does not have as much practice with non-obligated conversation as he might have liked; and in the ways of women is further ignorant. Being an Atlanian has always been the most important thing in his life and the deity demands much attention and devotion. Being severed from his duties (however temporary) — with no pack to offer them to — Axolotl is found with time to think about those things. The beautiful woman accepts his invitation — to the leviathan’s surprise that he attempts to mask — and stares after her as she takes charge. He hesitates for a moment, trying to process and hide his admiration as she pauses to glimpse back at him over a svelte shoulder. In a few strides he is caught up with her and keeps pace with her easily as they continue on his original path inland, deigning not to follow her but walk beside her as equals. “I am Axolotl. Axolotl Corten.” He introduces himself to her though she has not asked for it. He does not ask for her name in return allowing her the choice of whether she bestows it upon him or not.