Cerulean Cape we have always known how to be monsters

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His words contravene the salty brine of the Cape, a low, rasping sound that rise over the gentle crash of the sea behind him, the words lingering in the space between as he imagines she contemplates their sincerity. Though Axolotl hardly expects her to know it, if he was in a mood, if he had intentions of harming her he’d have made his move already. With his unpredictable temperament as raptorial and unforgiving as Atlan’s own his moods are often volatile but he has learned ways to combat them, ways to vent them in a healthy manner. Regular spars help him, too. If he is wasting that energy his moods are less likely to change so abruptly without warning. He watches as she creeps from behind her shield, reminding him of a skittish child. She is no child, mind; she is a woman grown that much he can tell. Age is not relative to him beyond child and elder both of which are easy enough to tell. He takes a moment to observe her, glacial gaze giving her a careful once over, content that he detects no scent of illness upon her pelage which he sees is not fully pale as he first assumed it to be. It is broken by a bit of black: two dots above her eyes and at the tip of her tail. She sinks down to the warm sand underfoot, her ears slicking back against her skull looking up at him with doe eyes that beseech. The
Atlanian is bewildered by this behavior for are they not both lone wolves? Is this Cape not neutral territory? Salmon pink tongue leaves his parted lips to draw across his jowls, a muscle in his ticked cheek jumping as he contemplates; he does not move and does not implore her to stand. It matters little what she does. He is not her superior and if she feels safer down upon the sand — though his tactical brain picks apart all the ways that she is now at a disadvantage while noting the few advantages she had from her position — then it is certainly not his place to judge.

The silence, however, feels a bit awkward to him. He is not sure what to do with it, what to do with her now that he has, somehow, managed to coax her out of her hiding spot. Nor is he sure why she even made a full appearance at all. “I am Axolotl Corten.” He offers her his name after some debate because it is the cordial thing to do, he knows, despite that the Atlanian isn’t always known for cordial behavior. It wasn’t exactly a trait that the feral warrior shamans shared. The legend of Nootka Sound is that when they are blessed by Atlan with the title they take a part of the sea into themselves. Twice, Axolotl has been blessed by Atlan, first when the deity nearly drowned him and again when they welcomed him as an Atlanian. “This Cape is very beautiful, isn’t it?” He asks, glacial eyes leaving her to glimpse around. Small talk was never much of a strong suit with him, either.

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