Ankyra Sound llosgi'r wrach a'i halen ei bedd

My power is out so this isn't a good time for a post, but may as well start somewhere. Feel free to treat him as a tresspasser if you deem him one!

The ocean waves crashed and rumbled as they hit the jagged, tooth-like rocks where soil met sea. It was no different from any other morning in this manner. The wind was cold but not unnaturally so, despite the season; the sky was clear for the moment and streaked with a thin sunlight; by the rocks something had collected, like a piece of lettuce stuck to the gums.

The ocean licked at the lump time and again, nudging it at various speeds (punishing it in some cases where the water seemed frustrated and fickle) but the lump did not move.

It finally slipped free of its moorings after the sea pulled back a ways, dragging the soggy body with it, and all at once the lump became a dark mark among the foaming ocean edge - no longer an irritant to the cove's stonework at all but, perhaps once it hit the sand and the ocean withdrew, an irritant to those situated upon the sound. The object was cleanly deposited among a shoal of broken shells and remained prone there for a few moments. 

 Then, like a child taking it's first breath outside of a womb  (slick and wet and desperate) the lump opened it's pointed snout and choked out a throat-full of brine.

The cold air struck him as he exited the grotto, tousling the length of his quill-like pelt along neck and shoulders. The old man shuddered, huffing in the breeze as it filled his nostrils with brine and the saline breath of the sea. It was still odd to him.

The ashen ghost shook his pelt and stepped out further into the beach. The sound of waves beat against his ears as their violent touch met the sands on the shore. Kierkegaard’s whiskers twitched along his muzzle, noting a strange change in the air. Something had washed ashore not too far down the beach. It seemed to take each slap of water with a broken slosh. Still, it did not appear to be like the other items that had been pulled from the swell. This one had been alive - if not now, at some point - and so the ghostly mercenary picked his way toward it with a cold and watchful eye. Both ears were drawn forward, hackles bristling.

It was not until he had drawn closer that he heard the strangled gasp for air. The sound set a fire to Kierkegaard’s gut. His pace became lightning and he closed the remainder of the space between them with a thunderous growl and a flash of his yellowed fangs. The brute seemed to swell and grow. His intent was clear: trespassers would not be tolerated.

I'm gonna stick a dice roll here just to tempt the RNG gods: ( 9 )

No sooner had he retched a mess of sand-wrought saliva unto the earth did something come careening for his position, but the castaway was unaware of it until the situation was immediate and dire. The gaunt figure of an aged man was sliding in close, drifting with experienced footwork around him, and as the wolf licked the salt from his own lips, he saw a flash of yellow fang in his periphery.

His assailant had many faces, but that was the disorientation coloring the moment. He saw the white-furred man but it was as if his mind was recalibrating, firing him signals from days previous that only further confused him: an intense heat everywhere; a searing pain along his back; the screaming of voices; the man's yellow teeth were there among the images and sensations too, snapping and grappling at his prone form—but the wolf could do nothing as he was set upon.

Teeth raked at his flesh but he could not tell if it was happening presently or a flash of memory. He lurched and kicked, or thought he did, and found a lack of balance around himself. As he rolled upon the sand he felt a sudden understanding that there was no sound of the grains beneath his body. He could see the flashing teeth but not hear their click. The ghost's rumbling did not exist—but those screams, so deeply ingrained within the half-dead man's memory, they would not stop.

He moaned piteously and rolled upon the sand, too weak even to flail as the ragged man came for him.

caiaphas had trailed a distance behind kierkegaard absently, finding fulfilling various duties like cache-storing and beach-combing far more endurable with a comrade. even if their company was spent in entirely silence. his growl caused her to pluck her head from a mound of seaweed she had been investigating and warily look about them.

it took her only a moment to decipher from his body language the nature of his snarl -- wordlessly she pulled from the flotsam towards him. she stalked forward at an assertive lope, with her tail waving aggressively over her narrow hips and her hackles raised like palisades along her spine. she could only just make out the bundle of soggy flesh, still living, that earned kierkegaard's attention -- but she knew soon as she saw it that its presence on the shore was unwelcome.

unlike kierkegaard, caiaphas did not give the thing the courtesy of snarling to announce her intentions: they were writ clear across her contorted muzzle as she stalked forward with her head low and posture threatening. if this thing, whatever it was, saw any hope of survival, it would be in a quick retreat back to the sea -- otherwise her fangs would surely and swiftly find life and extinguish it.

Grateful for her presence, Kierkegaard could feel himself spring to life as Caiaphas appeared from behind him. Her teeth were not kind and her intent was clear; they would not tolerate trespassing on their borders. As such, the lifeless stump of a creature had seemed to lurch in their position, rolling against the grains of sand with a moan that only succeeded in churning the events against their favor. It would not be long before others would scout down the beach and happen upon the scene. Even on his own, the ghost could have finished the half-life. With the support of even one more member of Grimnismal, they would surely be strung three different ways and disemboweled on the beach.

Without another pause, Kierke lowered his skull and gaped wide his mouth to expose his teeth. He did not care that this wild creature had endured any amount of suffering. It would be over shortly with the work of himself and Caiaphas. Aiming carefully for a chunk of flesh at the back of the stranger’s shoulders, the mercenary intended to pull pieces away until nothing remained. His eyes were trained on the brazen body, having so carelessly washed ashore to their territory. Fate had decided this wolf was to meet his end. Kierkegaard was only a hand in creating a means to such a conclusion. He trusted his partner to manage herself with as much fury and reason as she had in her body.

The sea-washed beast truly had one means of escape: the waters. Still, if they could not manage to rise to their feet to defend themselves, it was not likely they could return to the churning swell and survive again.

Another phone reply. But first a dice roll! ( 3 )

The pain caused by teeth catching flesh was numbed by the prevalent chill left upon him by the sea; however he reacted to the proximity of the wolf too and lurched, trying to steady himself on his feet. It was not long before the ruined man was set upon again, again, again. Patches of his skin were slick and red, staining the sand. There were two assailants now - and so he made to hurry away from them.

Of course his progress was minimal. The man staggered to his feet and could not support himself; he careened wildly (as if the ocean was still around him and he, unfortunately, bobbed like a pebble within it's grasp) but could not immediately escape. Teeth caught upon him and sought his blood. The two wolves would make easy work of the broken man.

He then made a desperate effort to wheel his dusky body around in defense. His own teeth snapped. His ragged figure swayed and braced against the shore, missing every rebuke he mustered, but he merely needed time to gather himself. That or allow the desperation of the moment seize him. Survival was all that mattered and it was not achievable here.

A glance during his erratic defensive posturing showed him his only option: the crashing waves of the sea. Thinking himself cornered, Nemnivus failed in comprehending the potential escape route (for now).

doggedly the sea-wytch skirted around kierkegaard, who assailed the soggy wolf with masterful blows of his savage teeth. the ghostly grimnismal male could make short work of this water-logged rat alone - so sure were his capabilities and immense his onslaught.

caiaphas hung back just far enough that she would not impede the man's mauling -- her own teeth cutting through air in successive, vicious snaps designed to worry the wolf's hocks and possibly trip him. should her teeth find contact she would pluck back and shake to unbalance the wretched thing that had the sheer misfortune to dredge up on their shore.

The violent means to an end did not bother the brute, and as his fangs connected with the trespassers back, he could feel his teeth sink into the soft flesh and find the rangy sinew underneath. The more that the stranger struggled, the more damage he would take. As the creature swayed drunkenly from side to side, Kierke loosened his grip and found that the struggling wolf had ripped himself away from the grip of his canines. A chunk of flesh remained in his mouth and he dropped it into the sand at his paws. The lurch had brought the wandering male back into a form of momentary safety. With bristling fur, the ghostly mercenary moved to block a potential foot escape.

Drawing his eyes toward Caiaphas, he allowed her a chance to take a chunk from their opponent. The reactions from the trespassing creature were strange, and Kierkegaard could not comprehend why the foolish brute would risk loss of life instead of the quick hand of the sea. The water slapped against them without a modicum of care, but it still stood as the stranger's only means for escape.

Attempted exit! Rolling a 1d10 for success percentage: 6 — Just barely successful!

It wasn't until they were both grappling his weakened body that he finally cast his mind to the sea. He knew now that the vessel of his body was of no use to him; that they would continue to rend his flesh and bleed him out across the sand if he did not do something. The realization came to him through a haze but it did come, and he did not turn away from their unrelenting violence despite it. Rather, the scorched wolf merely staggerd backwards as they gave chase. He had given his pound of flesh (or pint of blood). This was no harbor for him.

Fate would say if the ruined man would survive the sea this second time, as he plunged backwards in to it.

as kierkegaard drew away she swept in like a wave; the two of them worked in militaristic, brutal harmony. there was a beauty to their savage interlude but caiaphas was not emotionally aware of it -- all that swam in her vision was the offensive presence of the stranger.

as she clawed and fought for purchase on any part of his pelt he turned and a wave swelled then; it threatened to overcome all of them and caiaphas felt her feet pulled out from under her by the buoyancy of the water. with a snarl she parted from the wolf's side and was pushed like a rag-doll to shore. undeterred but unwilling to sacrifice her body to the sea's impetus she trailed along the sand-pack with her gaze fixed on the wolf that floated like flotsam down the shore.

Their quick action had caused the strange and drunken fellow to fall back to the waters. Kierkegaard watched them with a savage expression and a curled lip. Caiaphas appeared to have wanted more from their tousle and dove into the waves after the pathetic creature. When the waters had pulled the strange full far enough away, the dark-hooded woman returned back. Kierke did not dare to attempt a pursuit; the water would surely swallow him whole and release his body somewhere down the shoreline. He was already weak from fending off their land from the foolish brute of a wolf.

As the coywolf paddled back to shore, the ashen male watched her carefully in case she too might slip beneath the cold grasp of the ocean's hand. She was far more proficient in the depths than he, but she had been pulled away before and he would not allow it to happen again. Caiaphas was safe, though, and they had managed to defend Grimnismal territory without injury. The mercenary did not even feel a hint of sorrow for the sad creature who had been washed away.

since he's inactive i'll tack on an ending!

together they watched the creature's form retreat; the current would carry it out of the sound, and out of their lives forever.

like kierkegaard, the siren queen held no ounce of pity in her heart for the animal -- this was the wild, and the way of the wild. he would either die at the seawater's hand, or he wouldn't -- it mattered little to the coywolf.

considering their grim duties done, she turned to kierkegaard and for a moment held his gaze; she found herself thinking of how there was no better companion in her life, no wolf more loyal. silently she made one last sweep of the vicinity and then turned to the male, suggesting they retire with a silent flicker of her vivid yellow gaze. who knew what tomorrow would bring -- whatever it was, she would see to it the two were well rested.