Sea Lion Shores water in my lungs

This land was alien to him. The sky, stretching overhead in silent observation, was a few shades off. The birds sung a different song, the trees loomed with branches criss-crossing a foreign pattern - even the dirt beneath his feet seemed wrong, in some way. But the shore? The way the waves rushed forward to kiss land, pulling the sand back with all the reluctance of lovers plagued by distance, was all he ever knew. The salt that burned the insides of his nose and clung to his pelt, the gentle white noise of water against rock - it was home. He could cross the world and its seemingly endless expanse, and still feel at peace. For Æthelwulf was a River child, a bastard son born of the sea, and there was no coast that would not have him.

And it was toward the promise of ocean water that Wulf traveled. He followed the twisted shores of rivers as if they may guide him to the briny depths, and the faint smell of salt water carried on only the strongest of breezes served a compass. He welcomed the treeline when it came, only to find himself entirely dumbfounded by what grew there. Narrowed, pale eyes took in this new growth cautiously, curiously. It was in this wary observation that he found himself no longer in the agreeable company of solitude. A stranger bathed in umber waves, focused on something at their paws, stood in the distance. Instinct shouted vigilance, for the day could hold just as many terrors as the night.

Perhaps he was lonely, however, for he ignored it.

"Hello," came the greeting, when he was certain he was within earshot. His voice was hoarse and raw, neglected for so long that Æthelwulf himself was taken aback by its grating sound.