Stavanger Bay catskills in january

A cold, soggy mound of fur skidded against the sand as the waves brought it tumbling from the surf. Brown it was, and soaked to the heart, and it moved with such boneless fluidity that it must have been dead. It didn't move, didn't breath, smelled of nothing but the grit and brine of the sea it'd come from - so lifeless that it might've been kelp or sealskin.

It laid there on the beach, bobbing gently as the waves marched to and fro. Long moments, never stirring, never shifting except by the will of the tide.

It must have been dead. Had to be.

And then, with the suddenness of lightning, the creature reared back, coughing fitfully as stinging salt water poured, endless, from its mouth and nose. The sea seemed to hang on as it dragged itself further onto land, but the creature was stronger, and as it rose, many waters streamed away and fled back into the depths.

The figure stood for a moment on shaky legs, still coughing and hacking and gasping for air - and when it had caught its breath, it shook out its fur and resolved itself into the shape of a shewolf, tall and brown and with seal-sleek furs. Its eyes, though blood-shot, were not dulled by its time spent as a dead thing. They were gold, and they shined like the sun.

Mannoah coughed once more and lowered herself to her belly in the sands, ears turning back as her burning suns scorched across the place in which she'd found herself.