Totoka River you say if you could fly, you’d never come back down

Despite his chosen place of residence being quite a ways from it, Haunter had found himself with an increasing fondness for the coast. He found that he would sometimes dream of the roving, crashing waves, which was odd because years of his life had been spent without such night-visions of any kind. He could remember being very young the last times he had dreamed, and those shadowy and bloodied terrors could not be considered "dreams" in any sense of the word. Still, his dreams would bring him a few days away from the Creek, and he would visit the ocean with a lightness in his chest that he'd never before experienced. Watching the water, he felt most of his secret troubles go away with it.

He'd spent most of the early day on the beach, not doing much besides tramping through the damp sand and sometimes entering the icy saltwater for little other reason but to feel it. When he felt that sundown was nearing, the inky monolith drew his long legs out of the dunes and began making his way towards the forest where he would rest for the night and then begin his return journey to the Creek.

Leaving the loud waves behind, he found himself at the river, where he enjoyed several gulps of freshwater before marching along again—he stopped when he noticed that the blackened swathe of earth he was approaching, was actually a lying wolf. Her scent struck him as decidedly feminine as he drew closer, but more than that he could smell the fish on her. He made to make a route around her, but by now his proximity would've been noticed.

In a distinctly neutral fashion (for the feral wolf no longer wanted to tussle with loners), he kept his tail lank and his singular ear pulled back slightly. Though his eyes, yellow and ever-watchful, stayed carefully on the lounger, lest she find his rugged, spiky presence detestable.