Salted [m]

Two days ago, Haunter had taken another arbitrary trip northwest, and he had reached the coast on wandering feet and his nose and mind filled with the smell of the ocean. Haunter was never one for scenery, and having been born on a mountain, there wasn't much he hadn't seen from the reaches of his high-tipped peak. But even though the sky had been gray and the wind was still a bit biting, the black mongrel found himself admiring the churning sea for the fourth or fifth time since arriving in Teekon. He found himself thinking that forests, mountains, plains, and fields, could all burn, crumble or fall apart for all he cared. For his leering yellow eyes were fondest of the unexplainable ocean.

The leggy beachcomber ventured into the waves for the first time, exiting only because his shoulder (recently marked by the claws of a now-dead cougar) stung as the saltine waters washed over it. The drenched mongrel walked the beach a while longer, peering out like some intrigued youth and wondering about the deep, which was unusual for the usually indifferent male. He departed when the sun had set, and was only nearing the Creek when the sun was setting again the following day.

He arrived back at their borders at night, a warm night for the lingering throes of a meandering winter, and the Epsilon's dark pelt still smelt strongly of salt.