Gilded Bay the depths are calling

There is a tug as the fluctuations recede, beckoning to tread those depths. Natjuk considers himself above sway but there is an occult temptation in the way he is invited and impelled; some primordial presence sinking deep its talons into his marrow. Go deeper, it lures.

He resists, each wave met as obdurate as the last. There are powerful forces at work here but Natjuk finds it easy to shrug them off. Being dogged by hunger and assurances of family wears on him, but he is above whatever addressed him just now.

He meets the next wave with a snap of his teeth, water wetting his face. This he did out of frustration rather than outright anger. A mouthful of saltwater does nothing to facilitate his mounting impediments so he turns and heads back to shore, thoroughly soaked. Once back on land, he lets the water drain off of him in rivulets. The temperature was worse now that he was wet. This was not the smartest excursion and it wasn't even necessary. He makes to look out over at the sea again before spotting something.

An audience of one. Natjuk watches the other unremittingly, unsure of what to say or do.

The wind at his back is equally unremitting, snaking through each tendril of wet fur. What an ungodly sensation. It shows in his shivering figure, each spasm worse than the last. He puts his back to the wind, thinking that will help. It doesn't.

He must look the fool.

He feels like one.