Totoka River don’t say you hate me; you don’t mean it

@Bajeera, here, kitty, kitty, kitty~ ♪

A summer storm had broken out over the sea — its angry winds and choppy waves flowed outward like blood in the water, visible and palpable but altogether distant. Szymon watched as it raged, imagining the storms that had raged above Warsaw from time to time; and his glittering golden eyes clouded with memory. The sky here was humid, aching for lightning and rain to shatter the clashing fronts and find some semblance of order through chaos, and he shifted his shoulders irritably as his skin prickled uncomfortably with it. There was nothing for it, then, but to throw his body into the waves and fight the current, strengthening muscles that could little afford to go lax and complacent. Without a second thought, Szymon dove in, dipping his head easily above water, eyes open and observant despite the sting of salt that plagued him. Testing the fitness of his lungs, he remained under as long as he dared, flinging his narrow head up with a gasp after a prolonged time. Swimming outward, he found the push of the current and swam against it.

An unknown amount of time ticked by before he turned back, letting the sea propel him in a series of undulating thrusts toward shore; he rode the final wave and melted from the whitewater like a beast crafted from the seafoam itself, shaking his body vigorously when he touched down on the coarse sand. It was this point he realized he was several miles away from home — near the sea lion bulls and their harems. Skirting around the shoals, he avoided the hilly area occupied by the shrieking gyrfalcons and found a landmark beating to a quieter drum. The river and its glassy deltas appeared to Szymon somehow, and he made his way there, eager to see whether there were prey animals or herbs that could find a place in the pack’s caches. Ever wary of the sea and her capricious nature, he watched the incoming storm and remained close to the shoreline, paying little attention to the mirror-like wonders he strode through.

The mystic knew that the great ones wanted him near the waters; it was their direct means of communication with him, and though he had spent a short while wandering the back end of the flatlands, he did miss the quiet flush of water against sand and stone. Bajeera had caught sight of the river and had followed it as it twisted across the landscape, cutting directly through all measures of tree and rock in the way. Sure enough, the path had led him right back to the gazing pools he had witnessed on his first day. The rolling clouds that carried the promise of rain had filled in overhead and there was a rolling wind that churned the air. The lynx paused once more over one of the pools and drew in the scent of brine; the salt stung his nasal passage and Bajeera flattened his ears out of discomfort.
 
A sign of movement seemed to draw his attention toward a pale and briskly moving figure. Pale golden eyes adorned the white wolf, and the most unusual marking along his sides that trickled down him in inky stripes. The Gul’Dan narrowed his poisonous gaze on the wolf and stood like a creature of the great mystics as the first crack of lightning jetted down from the sky and seemed to connect somewhere behind him. It illuminated the shore in a frightening flash before the roll of thunder sounded overhead. With an interest in the beast, the cat placed his large paw into the sand and held it there. “Aka’Magosh!” the feline called out in greeting to the oceanic beast.

The first fissure of lightning split the sky, immediately catching the golden-eyed, golden-hearted Cairn’s attention with a sharp twist of his long, lean ears and skull — he blinked upon seeing the cat, his fur bristling not only with the electricity in the air but with immediate distrust. He realized then that the creature lacked the brittle yellow eyes of its lesser kin; the eerie fel stare reminded Szymon of Jagoda and Ishild. There was an eerie glow behind this beast’s eyes, though — and the odd language he spoke reminded Szymon of the Witch Doctors from back home.

Well, I mean — uh, hm. Even Szymon’s thoughts were incoherent — an oddity for the mentally eloquent and verbally crippled boy — and he wondered if he was under the grip of some kind of commune with the Sea. He had never heard of Her using a cat before, but perhaps She was running low on turtles. The thought made him chuckle, a deep, rich sound that hummed low in his throat, but he decided — although keeping his wits about him and his muscles bunched for battle — that he would commune with the oracle She had sent him. Perhaps it would help Doe in some way to know this strange little cat’s intent. Not that he understood anything the cat was saying — but it wasn’t like anybody ever understood what Szymon was saying, either.

I should have drank the whiskey. Or the julep, he thought to himself belatedly. Humming the song Doe had taught him, he attempted to lull himself into a trance deep enough to trick his body into letting him speak. “A-A-A-Ak — ” he stammered out, “M-M-M-M — ” If he couldn’t pronounce the common tongue properly, he had no hope of parroting whatever this cat was saying. And, with only the Sea and her odd, tuft-eared consort to see his shame, he bent his head raggedly and moaned despair. Just give me this, he thought desperately, slewing his sulphureous eyes to meet boldly the eerie fel glow. Take my thoughts away or give me the wherewithal to express them — can you be so cruel when I have been loyal? It was not the first time an acolyte raged against his deity, but Szymon felt a terrible guilt nonetheless.

With that guilt came a great unease, and he found that he wished ardently for the Sea Herself to envelope him in Her arms and wash away the stain that was set upon his breast. Without another word to the small cat, he turned and sought the sanctuary of the bay.