Stavanger Bay The sea runners

A wave of calmness gradually ran through Memphis's body as he listened to the perpetual sound of the fierce waves, momentarily distracted by the ghostly reflection that peered back up at him from the water's surface. A feeble grin, of sorts, cracked his neutral expression, the mask of hardened deceit that enveloped his features shattered with the notion of moving his right paw, breaking the reflection into various, floating ripples. It was only when a scent accompanied the oppositely influenced wind flow that Memphis's head tilted to the side with a movement near unnoticeable, able to decipher such as possessing an air of increasing familiarity. It was determined that, with the aid of his calculations, the wolf's scent was coming directly from the distant boulder, his paws were angled in the proper direction before the thought could be fully comprehended. Memphis sensed that the stranger was hiding furtively near the large stone. His piercing gaze roamed the exterior boulder, from where the silence began to linger in the moments he spared for the first round of examination, curiosity and wariness were alight in his brown orbs.

Although Memphis possessed the ability to be very patient, there were times, quite like this, that he just wanted to follow the scent and investigate the unidentified male. It would be unwise if he moved towards the massive rock without having a visual on the wolf. Beige paws of the ordinary patterns carried him forth in utmost fluency, heading to the highest dune for a better view angle of the seashore. Once he spotted the scent's owner on the top boulder, his pace evolved into that of a lowly trot, his analytical eyes gluing to his structural frame with a swift flick of his bushy tail. His left ear rotated atop his skull, wondering why the loner was concealing his presence on the uninhabited beach. Memphis would remain cautious despite what calmness his stature emitted, decided to meet him without the slightest hesitation. It wasn't long before he realized that he might give the stranger unease at his approach, so he halted a respectful distance away, in case he wasn't welcome in his space. Still, it was close enough to have a decent conversation and enough for him to be able to notice the scars that littered his hide. It wasn't unusual for lone wolves to carry scars, or to remain extremely wary of their surroundings, and it seemed that most of them were burdened by the difficulty of their pasts, whether the tragedies were minor or severe.

Memphis's gaze fixated upon the grayish-brown figure, skimming him thoughtfully; his physical features held no particular significance or familiarity to him, though his average build was of relatively equal proportion to his own. "Good afternoon, traveler." The words slipped from his tongue placidly, his tone simplistic, his head dipping in the slightest of tipped gestures as a sign of his acknowledgment. A soft breath of hot air departed from his ebony nose, his poise calmly maintained, not signaling any shifts in intention or emotion. Of course, for all he knew, the other vagabond could be a threat to him, for you could never truly hear someone's thoughts. Memphis always had a back-up plan in case the introduction went south.