Wheeling Gull Isle old salt kossabone

This is the kind of post you get when you mix a ton of assumptions with  trying to be vague lol -- For @Komodo ♥

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Even with the storm strengthening, Ixchel felt compelled to brave the incredibly choppy waters in order to reach her destination. The island over yonder swells beckoned her, and she chose to make the trip before anyone else behind her to ensure the ability to pass. The sandbar that typically formed a bridge between mainland and island, was presently half-buried and sinking further. It was the only thing that kept the calico angler from being swept out to sea, and she narrowly avoided the push and pull of the seagod’s arms, by straining herself to keep purchase on the sand crumbling beneath her.

The task was arduous, but not impossible, and she emerged onto the shores of Wheeling Gull, soaked and half-exhausted, but more encouraged by her triumph than before.

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The ritual had not worked. The storm still steeped, miles up the capricious coast, but the effects were far reaching and its rage was felt strongly by the earthstalker.  Not only was he rife with frustration from his fruitless efforts, but the churning sea kept him withdrawn from the mainland entirely. This island was not the place Komodo wished to whether the impending maelstrom — it was too small, too confined, too exposed to the acrimony of the gods — and his travel hardened paws prickled at the stagnation. 

The land bridge he traversed was slowly being eroded away by the force of the tides; and he worried about how long his tenure upon the island would be. The longer he remained inert, extricated from his search for Coelacanth, the harder his task of finding her would be. He had entertained theories that the girl had been an apparition, a departed spirit sent to walk the earth’s crust, who had been called back to the heavens since their meeting. The idea was tempting, but he remained unconvinced.

And as much as he was loathe to linger upon the island, the man knew to risk the erratic sea would be a frivolous risk, and the angakkuq was not in the business of taking unnecessary risks. The man liked solidarity and certainty and self reliance — and though we was not wont to risk his life, his entire being rebelled against these island constraints. He paced tirelessly upon the island sands, carving thick trails upon the beach in his anxious, repetitive motion. Nothing ever changed, ‘cept for the position of the sun in the sky — but his shamanic eyes watched the waters and learned their patterns, noted the way the fauna reacted to the tumult of atmospheric energies, observed how the fins of the agitated sealife sliced the water’s surface and in this way, Komodo kept close tabs on the progression of the storm.

He was doing just that when he witnessed a wolf pull herself from the waters. At first he was given pause, but almost immediately he pushed forth and padded towards the sodden shewolf — the brute was impressed. Careful not to startle the tired naiad, the man slowed his approach, offered a chuff [nearly drowned out by the crashing of the wind and waves] and spoke deeply. ”You braved that?” He questioned incredulously — and when he allowed his gaze to linger upon the miasma of creams and coppers that decorated her pelt, he was given pause again. He drew closer and notched up an eyebrow. “I know you.” He did not recognize her fully, but the familiarity was there.

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Ixchel had spent herself in the crossing. Though the sea had elected not to take her, it had not been gentle, and almost every ounce of her strength had been taken by the cold ocean thrash. It was taking nearly the rest of her to remain standing, a quiver taking up residence in her limbs as she battled freely with fatigue. She stood stock-still and dripping, wary of the feeling that if she even attempted to shake the access water or her creeping prostration, she might collapse. If another wolf had not approached then, she might have let herself.
All she cared to notice in her peripheral at first was the brute’s commodious size. She knew immediately that she would be hard-pressed to defend herself from him; although, if she were being honest, a puppy would’ve dealt her a decent opponent in her current condition. And still—even as she understood the distance he maintained to be non-combative, and his initial tone to be somewhat in mild esteem—her weighted hackles bristled.
What factor of intimidation she might’ve had before was lost in the way her pelt mostly still clung to her lean sides, but it also made her look more severe; ravaged, almost, without the fluff of her thick coat.
She kept her eyes averted, and her lips pulled back—playing the wolf deference while expressing a desire to defend herself despite the way the ocean had beaten her ninety-nine percent into submission already. She regretted braving the surf now, as it had put her in sickening position. His next words, however, stole away the growl that she held trembling steadily at her lips.
Her head snapped towards him, seagreen eyes flashing as she took him in fully and searched to place him with the same familiarity he had allotted her. She squinted, instead of moving closer, but after a beat her eyes widened again in recognition. Or maybe more so, in relief. Earthstalker, she sighed, her allayment stolen by the noise of the crashing tides.
She took a step towards him, and stumbled, noticing for the first time that her foreleg had earned itself a small bleed above her ankle, and she fell to her haunches readily. If only because she wouldn’t let herself fall completely.

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The woman was more tired than he had thought — he learned that clearly when her volatile reaction evinced her exhaustion.  He saw her quivering, heard the low rumble of her chest and pulled back a bit, as she looked suddenly quite feral; but her demeanor soon relaxed as realization dawn, reminiscent of his own just moments before.  “ee-shell,” he intoned clumsily, pronouncing the sounds of the female’s names rather than the word itself. The man had a simple tongue and butchered any word that required a soft rise and lilt of the voice; basically anything that caused him to forsake his roughhewn alto.  Their time with Riptide’s pack had overlapped for only a short while; Ixchel and Axolotl were there before him, and Komodo was there after they had departed with Tarnish’s gang. They had gotten to know each other well in the short time, given the volatility of the situation.

Ixchel moved forward and stumbled, so Komodo assumed the responsibility and closed the distance between them. He leant his thick neck down to peer at the wound. Molten eyes slitted and focused, and if she would let him, the shaman began to examine the wound. As his eyes perused the small tear in the thin skin on her ankle, he spoke to her. “I saw Coelacanth — “ he divulged, but i lost her. The man grimaced inwardly, wishing he did not bring up the sheepdog who’s relations they all shared — he did not really want to mention how she had fled from him, and he couldn’t find assurance of her safety —  but the coincidence was too large to ignore or left unspoken.