Ocean's Breath Plateau little w[o/a]rri[e/o]r

@Deirdre ♡

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Find Skellige.

Now, more than ever, it was important that the youngest of the Cairn brood find the eldest. Descending from the cursed water of the corrie loch, Szymon’s large paws strove north and west — hitching in their gait, furtive as the ever-present twitch of his tail. Ksenia was here. The taste of her name upon his tongue, although unspoken, burned like battery acid and kerosene. Hackles trembled to life along the ghostly wolf’s spine, lit with a subtle flicker of cream and ginger — he picked up his pace, tongue lolling from his jaws to flick cautiously at the tip of his nose and muzzle. The inky rib cage markings that stretched from his slinking spine to his sternum — crouched so low it brushed the earth — mapped the exaggerated inhale and exhale as he paused.

Salt.

Here was an idyllic place — the tall, soft grasses beginning anew to dominate the plateau were dusted with salt crystals carried windward from the sea. Scarcely daring to believe what his nose and eyes told him so plainly, Szymon dipped his quivering muzzle and parted his jaws, serpentine tongue just barely caressing one of the delicate blades. Salt. Truly. He wasn’t far now. Despite the haphazard sweeps of taller foliage, Szymon didn’t feel closed in here. A rare flutter of peace bade the boy relax, and for several precious moments he was a creature transformed — the hunched curve of his back smoothed out; the harsh clench of his shoulders unfolded; and he rose to his full height as he tipped back his narrow skull and breathed deeply. The agitated twitch of his tail slowed to an occasional, catlike flicker as his sulphureous eyes roved the area.

He was safe here. The crash of the sea was an audible thing; the tang of its salt was in his nose and on his lips and all around him; and he was hidden from a certain pair of soulless, colorless eyes beneath the undulating engulfment of grass and shrubbery — sparse and thin as it was. A smile, precious as the feeling that engendered it, shaped Szymon’s black-lined muzzle as he dug furrows into the soft earth with his muzzle. The earth here seemed to be healing from some terrible wound — much of it was new growth, and now and again there were patches of land with nothing growing at all. But Szymon was a seafaring wolf — he felt no injury or attachment to these inland territories.

The tiny smile remained on his muzzle as he padded to the plateau’s edge, craning his neck to scan the horizon — and what he saw bade him to do what he rarely ever did. “H-H-Home,” he breathed in a surprisingly deep, alluring timbre. It was a voice to woo with — a voice made to soothe and seduce with startling efficacy — and wholly wasted on the likes of the youngest Cairn boy.

Dropping to his stomach — he felt incredibly comfortable, the combination of warm sunlight and cool sea breezes melting his tension like butter — Szymon watched the waves with wide golden eyes. To sleep now would destroy every vestige of the peace he now felt, for whether he dreamed in nightmares or memories, he was sure to wake up in terror and confusion. So he remained awake, still as a statue, staring at the sea. He was sure to find Skellige now. This wild coast was practically designed with the Cairn brood in mind.

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