Gilded Bay always had high, high hopes

He registers the world around him slowly, gaze flicking haltingly over the shoreline and out across the waves, pausing over where the sand is etched in maze-like patterns and rock formations reach hesitantly for the sky, dappled in sprawling patches over the beach.
Through the haze of faint icy mist fed by the sea, the details of the scene are just obscure enough to feel surreal, a little dizzying. Beside him, herbs and food; how long has he been here? Dying ember eyes finally settle on his savior, a grim-faced sprite of flame with a steely gaze; he's grateful for his own ignorance of what flickers behind the woman's eyes, feeling the hairs along his spine prickle imperceptibly. Ceara.
The midnight wolf nods once, briefly, and turns to the food. The movement is not without effort, but he forces an ease to the twist of his body that he does not truly feel; battered by the waves, spat upon an odd and unforgiving shoreline, his body is weak. Each muscle cries protest as he bends to take the first bite, and the rest blur together as he forces himself into something mechanical, routine: bite, chew, swallow, bite, chew, swallow. Stability, simplicity, when his world has been so thoroughly flipped even his surroundings are alien and unwelcoming.
He finishes slowly, gaze trailing back to Ceara. Freddie, He offers, noting distantly the differences in their accents; not unusual, but momentarily attention-grabbing nonetheless. You come here often? The words are soft, playfully lilting. His lips pull upward slightly, a touch of weariness lurking under the smile. Each rise and fall of his chest highlights bone-deep aches, each subtle movement emphasizing tender muscles, but the man's good humor endures.