of all places that he's come across since leaving the isles, this is by far the closest to home.

his previous home, that is; its tall peaks serving as guardians to the wide open bay, crystal water sparkling beneath the moon, half blocked by cloud cover—ever moving as the tides roll in and out, a breathing, living thing. the familiar feeling of sand beneath his pawpads, cooled now that winter has come. he can only imagine the fierce heat that it must be imbued with during summer, driving all those who come here into the shallows or the shadows immediately.

wading into the bay, the foam of low tide rolls in, cold as ice, dragging fawn—colored fur along with it—but as desolate as it seems, the sea is still teeming with life. it has to be.

it takes time and travel until he spots a minute ripple just beneath the surface, and the opportunity is taken swiftly, leaping within range and bringing his head down quickly enough to catch the fish. something small enough to catch alone. something small enough that it won't fill him for long if he's to keep traveling like this.