Ravenshook Cliffs of salted crimes

It appeared, to Riptide, as if his companion whose features were undoubtedly slimmer than that of a wolf's — coywolf like him — wasn't quite sure what they were to one another, either. She had ceased her ministrations upon his wounds and a lofty sigh left the witch doctor's lips causing him to visibly wince again as the action pulled at all of his sore muscles. It took her a while to respond but when she did it was not a clarifying “yes” or “no” to his question. Instead, she spoke that Skellige was their lord but no, no! That wasn't right. The titan was king yes, but the sea, the sea! was their lord. A low scoff left Riptide's lips, almost afraid that the spirits would take those words back to the sea and that she would extract her revenge upon them. “Skellige is the Sea King but She is herself the divine,” His words were a simper, humbled and full of praise for the sea. Brother. This was the word she'd used to describe what he was to her. Was he? Riptide drew a long and decisive blank. When he attempted to delve into the murky thoughts of his mind he was met with a seething ire that appeared to come from the disheveled wraith of the gangster chained while Riptide had his control. Another giggle left Riptide's lips as he focused his eyes as they opened back to her, having closed for a few moments.

“No,” Riptide corrected her in a hushed tone, meant to soothe while also remaining matter of fact. “I have no siblings.” This resounded right to him and thus Riptide saw no further reason to question it. “You know Skellige? You are one of us?” He had no idea how he knew Skellige, could not call the specifics to his mind and so Riptide was left to assume that the Sea and spirits brought him to the Sea King. She offered him a casual lick to his nose and a low purl rumbled in the strong column of his throat. A sound of appreciation, subtly laced with that of pleasure. The spirits' let out a chorus of giggles, an ethereal noise that if rose in pitch might have caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to stand. Slowly, as to test his aching body's limits he rose as she hovered over him. For some reason that he couldn't place (a strong bought of Arturo's influence, no doubt) Riptide didn't like it. He found no pleasure nor comfort in this natural dominant and submissive roles her hovering inspired despite that he did not detect anything challenging or hostile in her posture.

He understood the simple truth that she was only trying to continue in helping him and thus he aimed to draw no attention to his displeasure as to not insult the lovely stranger. She answered his inquiry as to what had happened simply and he glimpsed up at the cliffs that he'd taken a plummet from, a wave of vertigo washing over him so that he suddenly dry heaved at his paws. Note to self, Riptide thought sourly, cliffs are bad. Stay off of them. “Nothing feels broken,” Riptide murmured as he fixated her in his gaze of twin fiery sunsets, though he took a moment to shift which paw he put pressure on, and rolled his shoulders. The give and pull of muscle and sinew left him with an unwelcome ache but nothing unbearable. “I can walk,” He determined a few seconds later after his personal inspection was complete. “though it will be slow. I feel like I head butted a ram and then a herd stampeded me afterwords.” The very same analogy he'd considered to himself but thus far it was the best way for him to describe to her how he felt and thus worth speaking aloud.