Gilded Bay always had high, high hopes

It's early when the tide brings with it a motionless, battered figure; the jet-black wolf offers no resistance, long unconscious, but by some stroke of luck catches on the rocks lining the shore. His fur is soaked, small patches of congealed blood scattered across his body where ocean debris had been less than forgiving. Overall, he's lucky. For falling off a cliff, he's in fairly good shape.
He can't know that now. The journey has been long and harsh, and wolves were never meant for the ocean. Wherever his mind is, it's far from his body, and for now he's blissfully unaware of the damage to his body or the danger he's in — or the frantic friends he'll never see again, scouring a beach far from here for the lost leader they'll never find.