Stavanger Bay with a crash

@Salt if you please! :)

Even he was moved by the lushness of the land around him. Étoille was unsure where this.. lingering attraction to the sea came from. He had not grown up near ocean, had only glimpsed it briefly, and yet. The red-woman, Maera, had mentioned heading this way. He had not followed, exactly. And yet he found himself circling closer. 

Restlessness was not a feeling the man knew how to confront. He was not even sure if that's what it was. He'd always been content to move forward. Even his thoughts seemed lighter, chasing energy he didn't have. Or used to have, anyway. Perhaps this was part of growing up (and not that he wasn't grown, but young enough to grow still, approaching his third year). Truth told, he didn't like it. Didn't know how to solve it.

Still, he was by the sea. It's largeness was soothing. He'd yet to see it up close like this. It seemed bigger than ever. A bigness he could not match. That helped set his thoughts in order. Étoille sat, back straight, and studied the horizon, a solid figure once more.

Salt was creeping on the outskirts of the shoreline, as per usual. The firey femme was crouched down with her belly low to the ground and her eyes focused on the concious cloud only a few yards in front of her. He was confident in himself, as if he were an unstoppable force sitting on top of he world. Why else would a lone wolf put so much effort into making himself seem so big? As far as Salt was concerned, wolves with this much ego were either overcompensating or plain stupid.

That being said, she wasn't too keen on finding out which label fit him better.

Her ears sat back against her head, her eyes trained on him, and only him. It was interesting to see how he held himself. In her mind, she was invisible, though one would like to note that there was no way a wolf with a coat that bright wouldn't have been noticed against the nude tones beneath her.

Étoille had always possessed a special talent for giving in to the nothingness of his idle thoughts. It was not quite daydreaming. That would require a more active imagination than the beast claimed to own. It was almost a form of meditation, though decided unspiritual - a measure of self-absorption that allowed him to tune out to the sounds of the world around him. He could just exist.

Still, it did not mean he was incapable of noticing when he was no longer alone. A stranger's scent caught his attention, mingled in the salty air. Blinking back into his surrounding, the man glanced around. Huh.

The woman was hard to miss. Her appearance was striking. Étoille'd met several fiery-red women in his life, but none with such sharply designed proportions. It was exotic, but Étoille did not think too hard on that. Instead the man tilted his head slightly, dark eyes squinting at her posture. She held herself low, drawn tight like a arrow on a bow. Was he the cause of that tension..? He couldn't really figure it out. So instead he politely chuffed a greeting, turning his large form toward her slightly. "Er," he said, deep voice uncertain, "have I done something."

Why were all the wolves in the Wilds so darn big? And what the heck was happening that they all seemed to be able to spot Salt in even her best hiding places? If this were a game, she might swear it to be rigged, but real life was a bit different than her typical endeavors. She was taken aback by his large stature and deep voice, and it showed through the flattening of her ears and scrunching of her snout.

Compared to him, she was a mouse, so she had no choice but to make herself seem as dangerous as possible in hopes of intimidating him. Of course, she just looked silly. S-stay back. Back! she stammered as she herself stumbled backward a few steps. Watching was fun from a distance and when the other person didn't know, but when they did know, it felt a lot different.

Were he human, he would be standing palms-up in surrender. Lacking the facilities for that, he merely froze, eyes widened comically. "O-oui," the man said, confirming her orders. It was not as if he'd been planning on running the tiny scrap of a woman down. But her.. fear? It made him flustered. 

He was careful to stay in place, still as a statue. He felt a bit silly. "I apologise?" Étoille said, or really, asked, for once the question mark made verbal. The poor tree was completely baffled by this strange display. He was large, sure. He knew that put some off despite his general harmlessness. But such a.. strong reaction, and before he'd even opened his mouth. "I will not approach you," he called to her. Just to reassure. "I am Étoille." Perhaps sharing his name would help calm her. Show her he was not threatening.

Salt gulped and allowed some of her muscles to release, though she remained alert should she have to dash. Okay, she whispered. She'd heard that name before, hadn't she? Not on this wolf, no, but surely Salt had known an Étoille at some point in her life. That's French?, she inquired, You speak French? Aside from Amharic, French was one of Salt's favorite languages. As a child, her mother would often sing to her in the sweet, melodic tones while her father was away. He always made a point of only using Amharic with them, so her lessons in French were far in between.

I'm Ch'ewi, but I suppose you can call me Salt. If you'd like.

The woman seemed to relax a degree. He relaxed too, careful not to pivot toward her in doing so. For some reason, her anxiety was.. unsettling to him. She seemed piqued by his slip into French, though sadly he was not fluent. "Er," the beast said after a moment, "Un peu. My mother did, but I did not learn fully." As a babe he had been close to fluent, but lack of exposure over time had reduced his memory of the language. He wondered if he should feel sorry about that.

"Salt," he confirmed. She didn't seem to be ready to bolt anymore, so he hedged his chances and shifted just slightly, to face her better. His body language remained as passive as before. "You know French?" Though logically Étoille knew others spoke the language, he hadn't met another soul that shared his mother's tongue. It felt a little strangely intimate - platonically so, but nonetheless. He was curious, now, about the terrified scrap of a wolf. Though whether she'd open up to him or just dash away remained to be seen.

Salt nodded her head to confirm, though she was in the same boat as Ette. Speaking had always been challenging for her, but listening and understanding came as second nature. My mom, she used to sing to me. A nursery rhyme called chanson de la minette. Out of the few things Salt remembered from her childhood, it was this song that she remembered the most clearly. It was a sort of routine for it to be sung at night, right before the children went to bed. 

Why didn't you learn? she asked him. It wasn't a difficult language, save for the complex conjugations, but even those paled in comparison to the other languages she had heard in her lifetime.

He doesn't quite smile, but a faint glow of recognition warms up his gaze. "My mother did as well, though I don't remember so clearly which ones." The man thought for a minute, recalling the sounds of his childhood. He hummed. "Au clair de la lune.." Étoille was - perhaps pleased was too strong a word, but something close to that, seeing the woman shift from fear to curiosity. 

Even so, her question bothered him. "Ah," he said, unsure. "I did as a child. But after a while.. je ne sais pas. I did not have occasion to use it, and so I began to forget." Truthfully he'd never seen this as a sad event. He had never been a family-driven creature; he'd left home of his own accord at a young age and was not sure he'd ever really.. missed his mother. Perhaps that in itself was sad. "I have not encountered many - any - who've spoken it since." His gaze turned onto her once more, curious himself. "Are you fluent?"

Oh, well I'd hardly say I'm fluent. Je peux parle un peu, mais I can understand a lot more. English was the only language she was for sure fluent in, but she was a decent conversationalist in any of her three natal languages. I'm glad to meet someone else who at least knows a little. It's been so long since I've heard it, but it's one of my favorite sounds. French was so melodic, so smooth (at least on the surface; anyone who knew it knew that it could be one of the ugliest languages when it chose to be). 

Are you from here? she asked, wondering if there were more francophones nearby.

He nods. She seems to be similar to him, though her understanding probably surpasses his. Still - what are the odds of meeting another with his heritage? "Yes," the man echoes. It isn't something he thought often about, but she's right. "It feels.. like home, almost."

Étoille feels a little embarrassed with that ommission. He's grateful when she asks him another question, offers an opportunity to change the subject. "Non," he says, thinking of Gnarled Oaks briefly. "I've been here for a few months now, but I've been.. wandering for longer. Yourself?" He, too, is curious about others like them, though only a little: meeting with Salt is enough for him, for now.