Sequoia Coast Need some air

@Ptarmigan

Thistle left Ragnar in his ire and went for a breath of air near the coast. She was glorious in her fury and she wanted to rip something up. Brushing the tears of anger from her eyes she kept walking along the coast happy to get some air and away from his infuriating stubbornness. Gods help her but she loved the man. She let out a growl that cracked through the air and kept walking.

She finally stopped and stood staring across the water, as it came in and brushed her toes and legs and she dug her paws deeper into the sand, liking the feel of the cool sand against her feet. She smiled to herself gently and let her mind drift off, while her ire began to cool.

Ptarmigan's recent encounter with the ocean had left her feeling disgusted by the coast, yet for some inexplicable reason, the timber wolf had remained in the area. It was likely she would remain for several days, because although the scent was upsetting to her stomach, the sound of the waves and the sheer massiveness of the large "lake" was astounding. It was sublime.

She padded along the warm strand, locked away in her thoughts, when suddenly a hazel wolf materialized on the edge of what she had come to call the Massive Lake of Massiveness. Ptarmigan wasted no time in attempting to initiate a game, though the manner in which she did it was questionable at best. With no regard for the other's mood, she charged forward, aiming to shoulder check the amber-furred female before dancing away with sharp barks of laughter and a jovially swinging tail.

Though Thistle enjoyed the ocean, she always would clean herself in a fresh water basin afterwards, disliking the salt and the sand mixed into her pelt. It wasn’t very often that she went into the ocean as it were anyway, she mostly just stood at the edge and watched the tide ebb and flow.

Thistle’s hackles rose at first when the wolf came charging at her, and she growled. Wondering if this was an isle wolf, and they were after her for taking the wolf Claire as a captive. Her growl tapered off into a yelp of surprise when the other wolf shoulder checked her. She stared in surprise and a little bit of wariness as the black female with silver toes danced around with laughter and her tail wagging in evident joy.

Thistle decided right then and there that the other wolf was possibly, probably insane, but decided that perhaps a little bit of play would not go amiss, given her current mood. She bent into a play bow and waited for the other to make her next move.

The sand shifted under her feet as she pranced, and one moment she stumbled and looked about ready to fall on her face. As the small dark Endore righted herself, she glanced back at her would-be opponent, who had lowered herself into a play bow. Ptarm waved her tail high over her back before dropping it to a more neutral level. She was no leader, not here, not anywhere.

With a deep woof, the female danced forward, slapping her paws in front of her encouragingly. She tossed her head as she approached, pausing every once in a while in her curious bounds to observe Thistle's actions. Who knew what game they were playing? It didn't have a name that Ptarmigan knew. It was simply a natural, instinctual response to a play bow.

Thistle watched as the other momentarily lost her balance and her heart seized for fear that the other would fall and get hurt. However, she soon righted herself and Thistle's breathing returned to normal.

Thistle grinned and ghosted forward with a feint to the right and tried to pull gently at the other's ruff, then jumped backwards. Her tail was wagging a mile of a minute as she studied her opponents next move. She was enjoying herself and getting rid of much of the negative energy that had, just moments before had her mind, soul, and heart in turmoil.

Ptarmigan fell for the ploy, and drunkenly swaggered right in an attempt to intercept Thistle with a friendly head butt. Unfortunately for both her and the air, she only managed to swipe her head through open sky, for Thistle had quickly danced to the left instead and tugged gently on the longer mane of hair over her shoulders. Ptarmigan whirled in what felt like slow motion as she tried to comprehend what had happened, but already Thistle was stepping back and readying herself.

This time, the petite Endore swept forward unabashed. She moved lightly on her feet, showing her true speedy nature in that moment, but when she reached for Thistle's left ear, the sand under her feet betrayed her. She overextended on her right foreleg and it suddenly slid out from under her, sending Ptarmigan into a somersault right past Thistle.

Thistle gave a swift smile at the fact that her ploy had worked. A bark of laughter came up from her throat and she batted out a paw at the girl. She shifted in the sand, holding tight to the ground for traction. She lowered her head again to tackle her, but it was not to be.

Thistle swung around to follow the girls descent into a somersault head over tail. She stopped moving and strode forward with worry. Are you okay? that sand can be slippery if you aren't careful? She stood looking down at the other female a look of concern evident on her face.

With her inexperience, it was no wonder that Ptarmigan had fallen. It was bound to happen, no matter how graceful the Endore female tried to be. She had ranged over packed loam, red clay, and the cracked sand along a desert's fringe, but never had she travelled on loose sand such as this. She found that already it burrowed into her coat, agitating the skin underneath.

She glanced up at the nameless Stavanger Bay bitch, who had come nearer with worry etched on her face. “I'm fine,” Ptarmigan huffed as she hoisted herself up. She felt her foot beginning to slide away again, and spread her toes to prevent it from happening. “Ugh, how can anyone get used to this stuff?” she sighed rhetorically, figuring that Thistle Cloud wouldn't have the answer to it anyway.

Thistle did not understand really that Sand was so slippery, having grown up near a coast as a child and then moving to one as an adult. It was not any hardship for her to walk on it, she was used to it. Having learned how to handle it as a child.

Thistle chuckled I am glad you are okay. I’m Thistle Cloud Loðbrók, but you can call me Thistle. Thistle moved to help, but realized the other may not appreciate that so she stood undecided halfway towards the other femme. I’m not sure how to get used to it as I have always been around it, so I can’t give you advice. If my husband were here I’d have you ask him, he is from the north so I imagine it took some getting used to for him. And just like that a pang of longing for him threw Thistle for a loop, she was angry with him of course and had yet ot forgive him, but she did miss him at the moment.

Thistle Cloud Loðbrók was a mouthful, and slipped through Ptarmigan's mind faster than soap through fingers. About the only thing she caught was "cloud", which she committed to memory instantly. That would be the single name forever credited to the blue-eyed, honey-furred wolf, who admitted she was a wolf who was born on the coast. A coastal wolf, one of those very specimens she had just indirectly insulted.

She didn't scramble to correct herself, though, partly because Cloud was still speaking and partly because she wasn't really that sorry. Different tastes, and all that. “I come from the north too,” she said brightly, not realizing that "the north" defined specifically the upper reaches of the tundra rather than just north of their current location. “My whole family is from the north!” That might have been more true. She really didn't know her ancestry that well.

Thistle cloud thought she saw a dazed and far away expression enter into the other's gaze, when she mentioned her name. However, she wasn't sure and it could just be the light sluicing across the other in a different way of some kind.

Thistle smiled at her, Really there seem to be a lot coming from the North lately. Is it bad that way? Or just time to move on I guess? And there had been first Ragnar and then Gavriil and then countless others. She wondered at it, wondered if it was a famine there or if they were just tiring of the harsh climate and wanted a milder one. or like Ragnar on a journey for his god.

“My mum had other plans for me,” she grumbled, clearly still upset with Quail even though three or so years had passed since she was driven out. “Came further south recently because freezing your teats off every winter isn't worth it.” Of course, Ptarmigan had yet to realize that she hadn't landed in the balmy Caribbean but, rather, another place plagued with the misfortune of winter. She would learn soon enough, no doubt.

“Everything wants to kill you,” she added with a frown. The further north a wolf went, the more golden and bald eagles they found, and the larger the bears got. She suddenly imagined (incorrectly) that maybe the eagles and the bears had become such a problem that they resulted in a mass exodus of wolves from the north. Granted, "the north" was a stone's throw when compared with what Thistle Cloud was really referring to, and the bears in Ptarmigan's north were very different than the bears in Ragnar's north.

Thistle listened patiently and quietly to the other's words. it gets cold here too, though I do not imagine that cold. I have never frozen my teats off as it were. She smiled her attempt at humor, probably falling flat, but it was worth a try after all.

Thistle listened and her eyes got wide, That is indeed a savage place. no wonder her husband was so savage by nature. If everything was out to kill you the further north you went, by the gods she was glad she was here and not there.

“Well, that sucks,” Ptarmigan sulked as soon as Thistle revealed that she hadn't, in fact, reached the Caribbean. Not that a wolf could thrive in that sort of environment. The loner had clung to some hope that she might yet discover a place untouched by the frigid kiss of winter, but so far, it was a dying hope.

“I hope you don't mind, but I should be going soon,” she said, giving nothing more than a mm and a nod in response to the observed savagery of the north. She wouldn't call Shingle Steppe savage by any means, but it was becoming more evident that the north stood for something a little more wild to Thistle than her notion of it. The dismissal, albeit sudden, was accompanied by the slightest apologetic wiggling of her hips as though to silently say, sorry but I really have to pee. She was hungry, too, and her legs smarted more than she cared to mention from her tumble.

Thistle chuckled at the other's sulky attitude and gave her a brief smile. She enjoyed this female she made her laugh and she was playful.

Thistle shook her head, No i don't mind I should be getting back too. I have children to take care of. It was a pleasure to meet you Ptarmigan and I hope to see you again. Then Thistle gave the other a small nudge and strode back towards her border lands and her husband and all the issues she was having as of late.