Sequoia Coast outside, cold and ghosting out with jetlag

The waif emerged from the waters and trudged toward him, showering the sands with drops and splashes that fell from her coat. He watched her with a pair of molten eyes, ears fixed on the woman as she closed the space between them. For as much as she believed she owed him, he would disagree with all of it. The sea witch had been the savior to many of his problems. She had housed him when injured and aided him when he had stolen a child from the wilds. All the while, Caiaphas never asked questions and always accepted him for what he was. Kierkegaard was only – always – dutifully hers. She breathed life into his ragged frame and sparked the burning fire of his gaze.

Something pulled the sea witch from him. She snapped her head to peer down the stretch of beach. Slowly, his head lifted and he drew his ears forward. Someone was there, after all. Her narrow muzzle parted in another sounding cry. She beckoned the stranger toward them. Out of the mist, a youthful body bounded. His expression did not falter as the young boy closed all distance between them. The ghost stood silently and watched as Caiaphas was showered in emotion and affection.

It seemed that this young man had known the coywolf before she had tumbled into the waters. He seemed attached to her on a level that Kierkegaard could not quite understand. His ashen frame swayed with the small gusts of wind brought in from the sea. Each rigid quill that stood along his neck and shoulders seemed to dance in the ocean breeze. His lengthy ears swiveled with each statement that poured from the stranger's mouth. Awkward as it might have been, the statuesque figure did not move from her side and watched – almost protectively – from the corner of his amber gaze.