Mireille's children.
Coraline had taken to sitting beneath the curve of the crags that line the bay; reacquainting herself, making her scent known again. Sapphique welcomed her home with bright grins and open arms, and already she had spoken with some of them — Chacal, too, had little ones! And her heart swelled at how her family had grown, how the next generation of seababes had landed and taken the cliffs for themselves.
It made her wonder if she would ever become a mother herself.
But currently, her concern was with the haughty bob of russet and silversmoke; her niece; that was trying to eat the seawater. Fè atansyon, she barks, de waves are going to eat you.

Fi mwen, Coraline's head shakes in a curt nod as she swiftly rises to tapered legs. you are doing it all wrong.
Doesn't she know that sharks have gills, and don't potentially die via aspirating seawater?
The redheaded girl swiftly dives past her in one practiced move, loping into the sea and pausing only to cast a brief glance over her shoulder. A competitive flair breathes anew inside of her as she wades further into the brine until her feet no longer touch the sandy floor. Can you swim?

Silly, silly girl.
She is reminded much of herself and her own siblings when they were young, of the sting of being othered for some reason unknown to her still. But that was so long ago now, and what had come of it?
She had not been here for little Chantale's birth; she was, in spirit, a stranger to this girl, and the guilt over such sweeps at her ribs as her head dunks beneath the surface.
Her head pops back up in a flurry. Den I will teach you, paddling swiftly to meet the wonky youngling where she's at, Coraline flashes a knowing, haughty grin. sharks must know dese t'ings, hm? De ways of de sea. her forelegs stretch outward in an offering of guidance. Hang on to me.

There was one simple answer. Naje, Coraline instructs with a smooth tilt of her voice, hind legs moving in a practiced tread. Her lips contort into a sly smile. kick your feet. You be learnin' from de best.
She guides them outward, further and further from the safety of soft shallow sand and closer to the darkstone boulders that line the seacliff shores. When you are ready, use ya arms. I will be here. 

Chantale is competitive, and harbors quite the attitude. If Coraline were any younger, perhaps she would have given her own devilish flash of ivory, but she was not that girl anymore. Her eyebrows lift unceremoniously as she watches.
The girl swims rather clumsily, limbs flailing in what Coraline could only assume was a panic. Instinctively, she reaches her own limbs out; holding herself afloat with her hind, muscles flexing as the sea ripples at her sides.
Tread de water, Chantale, she motions with the tip of a slender nose to the rhythm of her own limbs. Smooth, practiced; seaborne. Like dis, gade?