Sea Lion Shores when i die, you can push me out to sea

it becomes rapidly evident to the tundrian as his steps are halted by the pale and gold pelaged beast that rises out of tangled seaweed with a roar and frothing lips that there was something lurking in the thick green algae that had washed upon the shore. wintersbane's hackles rise and bristle along his spine, silvery-blue maned chest rising in response to being so thoroughly startled. it is a wolf and the froth at his lips is likely sea foam but it does little to soothe the tundrian's perturbed countenance.

threat? or not threat? these are the questions wintersbane's glacial gaze seeks an immediate answer of as he assess the stranger.

possibly a threat, wintersbane deduces at the flash of fangs; despite that the stranger doesn't appear to be in any sort of state to be starting a fight — the sway of balance does not slip beneath wintersbane's acute and skeptical observation — wintersbane knows better than to make ill-guided assumptions. assumptions were a child's mistake and the sotaherra was no child. he does not seek to close the distance between himself and the pallid and golden dappled man but the tension in his shoulders ebbs tick by tick. easy there, wintersbane drawls. i'm not lookin' for a fight and i really don't think you are either.