Blackbeak Bluff friends in a previous life

Even now, settled relatively well into the role of Jade, Sobo was prone to wandering when he wanted to think.

He moved down the coastline at an easy trot. Hardly more than a brisk walk, really. A thin fog remained draped over the sea, refusing to be cut away by weak sunlight and giving the entire coast a melancholy feel. Perhaps that was the reason his thoughts had turned inward, and his feet had begun to move. He walked past the tall sequoias of Ankyra Sound to the adjacent cliffs and hardly noticed his surroundings as he went.

Until he approached the edge of them, where gulls and seabirds nested and the ground dropped away to sheer nothingness, and he remembered himself with a rapid blink. He dropped to his haunches there to admire the view of pale light glittering on the sea, seeming almost ghostly in the fog.

"лопови! крилата гамади! зар вам ништа незначим?!"

but of course, that species-thick language barrier prevented his barks from being comprehended. in spite of it, it seemed to slavo the birds made some awful laughter-like squawks at his poor, wretched form.

( not that by now much of said wretched form could be seen. )

the gulls - winged rodents! - had robbed him of a meal! his catch, a side-striped fish of much length, had been nabbed in the moment he'd set it down to scratch an itch. now the gulls toyed with it - with him! - by passing it around their hooting flock.

the komondor, his frustration justifiable, hopped around dangerously near the very cliff's edge, barking every insult and plea he knew as the fish was eaten - just a whisker's length out of reach.

The silence was broken by a sudden racket. Sobo cranked his head around to the source of it, his features collapsing from serenity to deep, scowling disapproval. Those lines etched ever deeper into his expression when he spotted the source of it some distance away.

If the thing was a wolf, it was like no wolf he had ever seen. It bounced on the edge of the cliffs with little care for the steep drop below, barking like a maniac at the birds flocked overhead. Its fur was twisted and knotted in an impossible manner that even the worst case of matting could not mimic.

What was readily apparent to Sobo was that this thing was diseased and likely in the throes of psychosis to boot.

With a disgusted sound in his throat, the Sapphique wolf picked himself up from his perch on the cliffs and beat a hasty retreat away from the sick creature. He might be a healer after a fashion, but he was not a sympathetic man. No way in hell was he exposing himself to whatever had taken that thing’s sensibilities from it.