Gilded Bay the depths are calling

When the horizon turns a steady blue, he knows he has reached the sea. Paws soak into the sand, leaving behind his insignia. Each bound carries him deeper and deeper until the water teases his bosom. It is cold - burning cold - but he does not move, allowing the pain to shoot through him. A welcome sensation.

As captivating as the sea is - with its white-capped tides and turquoise depths, brimming with entities he'll never know - he is enraptured by the idea of testing it. How long would he last before he succumbs to the black below? With each consecutive surge against his frame, he finds his nerve sinking swiftly.

The sea is not something to best nor will it ever be.

from afar, govinda watched the man, marveling at his pluck. he liked a good swim, himself, but the water was dreadfully cold this time of year, and the air no comfort, either. dips were fine in the summer, but now. . . he stepped closer, coming down onto the beach, his paws leaving perfect prints behind him. 

he could call out, but he doubted he would be heard. and what to say, anyway? the stranger had clearly made up his mind to chase the waves. govinda could only hope to be something of a comfort, in warm demeanor and words, when the man emerged again. 

if, corrected a small voice in his head, which he ignored.

There is a tug as the fluctuations recede, beckoning to tread those depths. Natjuk considers himself above sway but there is an occult temptation in the way he is invited and impelled; some primordial presence sinking deep its talons into his marrow. Go deeper, it lures.

He resists, each wave met as obdurate as the last. There are powerful forces at work here but Natjuk finds it easy to shrug them off. Being dogged by hunger and assurances of family wears on him, but he is above whatever addressed him just now.

He meets the next wave with a snap of his teeth, water wetting his face. This he did out of frustration rather than outright anger. A mouthful of saltwater does nothing to facilitate his mounting impediments so he turns and heads back to shore, thoroughly soaked. Once back on land, he lets the water drain off of him in rivulets. The temperature was worse now that he was wet. This was not the smartest excursion and it wasn't even necessary. He makes to look out over at the sea again before spotting something.

An audience of one. Natjuk watches the other unremittingly, unsure of what to say or do.

The wind at his back is equally unremitting, snaking through each tendril of wet fur. What an ungodly sensation. It shows in his shivering figure, each spasm worse than the last. He puts his back to the wind, thinking that will help. It doesn't.

He must look the fool.

He feels like one.

when the man left the water and turned, their gazes met. slowly, govinda began to step forward, each movement deliberate, his eyes not leaving the other's face, even as water left the dark body in cool sheets. finally, he stood a few paces away, head cocked slightly in question.

why? he asked simply. it's cold, he added rhetorically, watching how he shivered. govinda blinked, nonplussed by the bizarre interaction. he was mostly concerned about the stranger's health. physical and mental.

The stranger with cinnamon locks draws close with a perplexed bearing. Why indeed. Natjuk stills his tongue. He could say much. I deserve this. The pain makes me feel alive. I don't know. Any word that slipped from his lips would expose just how beaten he is. Toes dig deep into the sand. No way - no way he's doing that.

He shakes his head, still trembling. His teeth clatter loudly.

It never crossed his mind that the other may be legitimately worried about him. After all, what's there to fret about? He is nameless and homeless here; just another beast to compete against.

the poor thing was so cold that speech seemed to have eluded him entirely. clucking his tongue like an old crone, govinda jerked his chin, glancing inland in invitation. walk with me, he commanded gently. you will stay warm if you keep moving, and the movement will help you dry off, too. he began to pad away, craning his neck to peer at the man.

what was going through his mind, anyway? the look in those golden eyes--so like his own--was something feral and fatalistic.

It's amazing how much turbulence bubbles hotly under his skin; how he craves this man to instigate violence when there is none to be had. The letting of blood does not solve everything. However, there is calm in the collision of bodies, of fangs slicing open skin...But the mannerism of this fellow is much the opposite: kind, accommodating, peaceable.

Torpidly, he lopes after the nameless man. He matches his gait, drawing close but not close enough. There is a silent question as he measures the stranger's personal space: may I come closer?

he sensed the wolf wanted to draw closer, and he was fine with that. he was amenable to providing warmth and comfort, so long as the other didn't take advantage of it. he let his shoulder brush briefly against the other before pulling away, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. finally, after a moment or two of silence, he spoke.

where are you from? govinda asked softly, glancing over at the brown, sodden wolf. do you live around here? the brine made it hard to distinguish any familiar scents; all he smelled like to govinda was the sea. not a bad thing, normally, but not great for ascertaining someone's origin.

For those few precious seconds, he leeches heat from the sea-scented man. Not wanting to encroach further, Natjuk gives him space. Stealing a glance at his profile shows healing wounds around his mouth. Maybe this one is not so benevolent, after all. Natjuk licks the water from his lips.

I am no native, no. I hail from mountains northeast of here. Not terribly far from their location in the grand scheme of things. They may have relocated now, though. Depends on where the bison are. He cooly regards the male at his side. It is obvious he makes his home along the bank; he emanates salt and little else.

his eyes drifted by reflex to the northeast, the great inland that lay beyond. what brought you so far? govinda asked, looking over at the man once more. relocating for winter? can't blame you, if so. this was still too far north, in his opinion. only when he was back on the southern shores of his youth would he be satisfied, and that looked unlikely anytime soon.

he hoped the walk was helping. staying still would be a death sentence for the stranger. he picked up his pace, slightly, pushing through the weariness that gnawed at his bones, every once in a while. the urge to just. . .stop. i'm govinda, he offered, with a cant of his head.

Relocating? More like fleeing. Fleeing places he knew like the back of his paw. Every path, every crest of his grandparents' mountain; the cleft of the valley below, misty on the warmest of days and frozen on the coldest. Herds would stroll about, seldom vanishing into remote woods...He remembers the scent of spruce and pine fondly.

Lost in times since past, Natjuk allows the sound of their footfalls to fill their ears. He never loses pace, meeting Govinda step for step. The crunch of sand is deafening and grates on the warrior's nerves. He vocalizes abruptly as if not an ounce of melancholy lurked in the recesses of his heart.

I was born there. We called ourselves Tartok. And he can tell none of Tartok's claim resides in Teekon. It is possible that some have tried to do just that, though. But those details are of no concern to Govinda. I left halfway into my second year. Lies. Another devil on his back. Ran with a pack for a short time until we decided to disperse. In that short time, he had learned a lot. Not enough, evidently.

And you? Why should he be the only one spilling half-truths? From where do you originate?

the man gave him a name full of vigorous consonants. tartok. like something you'd spit during battle, blood staining your mouth. with that, he had govinda's respect, and the seawolf fixed his hawkish gaze on the man--noting that while he had given his own name, the stranger had not. and yet his homeland had slipped from his lips so easily. . .

quite the opposite, govinda said mildly. i come from the south, not the north, and i have no family to speak of. not that i know personally, at least. no name to call his own, either, save the one his mother had given him. he had always been scattered, a vagabond, traipsing from place to place without ambition.

come to think of it, that was quite like what he was doing now.

Their trek across the bay has helped to warm him. Where once was freezing cold now emits tepid heat. It will take a while longer before he can rest. There is infirmity to fret over, as well. Natjuk hopes his hardy lineage will help in fending off sickness. If not, well...that's what happens when an individual believes they're above it all.

What is it like down south? Natjuk has never traveled remarkably far. He has visited places untouched by wolves though those are few in number. And my name is Natjuk, he tacks on. His is a cumbersome procedure of speaking but there it is.

warmer, govinda remarked easily, smiling. the winds are less sharp, too. up here is not a place for the faint of heart. and this man certainly didn't fall into that category. his name, too, was sharp, just like tartok.

are you warmer, bhai? he asked, raising his chin in query. hopefully the walk had done him some good--although if he was true to his name, natjuk would recover with aplomb. northern wolves didn't run from the cold. . .they ran into it, be it blizzard, waves, or otherwise.

Bold/italic font is spoken Inuktitut. Thanks for the thread!

He can visualize realms down south, annealed by the sun. Surprisingly, dry earth and warm thermals manifest in his mind. Temperature is the only descriptor he's gotten. For the likes of Natjuk - who was fostered and forged in freezing eminences - that is more than enough.

Funny how Govinda resembles his motherland, not merely by name but also in character. Natjuk's discriminations - commonly wintry and distant - soften lightly in the company of this man. He will not misremember Govinda's succor.

Yes. Finally. He is starting to feel more like himself, in body and spirit. The mounts southeast of their position solidify what he set out to do in the first place. His pace stalls to a stop, focus brought to bear upon Govinda. A faint, forlorn smile draws itself across his lips.

I should be going. He does not want to take up any more of Govinda's time, having had his share. He feels rejuvenated from it. How long this will last is yet to be seen. Natjuk cannot say for certain he will come back this way. When summer returns, will Govinda be lingering in these parts still?

Thank you for your time. He punctuates this with a bowed head. Farewell. Off he goes, running headlong toward Ravenshook Cliffs.

A hasty exodus smothers what could have been.

he was glad to see the man in better spirits, and gave him a nod in return. the word that floated his way was not known to him, but it was, really. all goodbyes were the same in spirit, if not in syllables.

phir milenge, govinda murmured after him, watching him go. then, shaking himself, he returned to walking the beach, wondering if he'd catch any more mad souls jumping into the waves.

mad--or brave? sometimes, he wasn't sure, himself.