Lion Head Mesa i hunt the wilderness in myself

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Axolotl studies the seemingly desultory mountain that rises from the arid plains. His search has taken him far from Meares Island. For a wild moment, the Atlanian considers scaling it, seeing if the years of balancing upon rocks that form a natural pier over the ocean on the left side of Meares Island has honed his balance enough to conquer the impressive mountain before him. The imperial turns his sights away from it moments later for the simple fact that he is coastal born and raised and his place is not atop a mountain but near the sea. Near Atlan. The androgynous deity of the sea names him Atlanian — a warrior shaman in their name. Trained to fight for, to protect, to preserve and to navigate. The ability to read Atlan, to decipher their moods and how to navigate them. It is a knowledge that is intimate and highly revered among those of Nootka Sound. It has been a long time when he was found by Tarnish, a scrappy pup of only six months when he left the Sound but he remembers. He remembers the culture, the religion that has become to irrevocably intwined with him.

Axolotl must travel further to reach the coast, this he knows. The grasses underfoot is dry and it’s taller counterparts tickles against his legs as he moves through it, breaching it’s end upon the bank of a small lake that appears as if it has begun to dry up. A frown pulls at the edges of the leviathan’s lips as the monster of the sea looks down at the water before he bows his head and laps from the water, finding it cool and refreshing; enough to sate his thirst. This terrain is foreign to him and the eagerness to reach the coast near unhinges him. It is a restlessness that coils and sparks within his chest, threatening to combust if he does not soon reach the sea. Axolotl knows he must rest, must eat and keep himself in peak condition regardless of his impatience.

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