Stavanger Bay catskills in january

A cold, soggy mound of fur skidded against the sand as the waves brought it tumbling from the surf. Brown it was, and soaked to the heart, and it moved with such boneless fluidity that it must have been dead. It didn't move, didn't breath, smelled of nothing but the grit and brine of the sea it'd come from - so lifeless that it might've been kelp or sealskin.

It laid there on the beach, bobbing gently as the waves marched to and fro. Long moments, never stirring, never shifting except by the will of the tide.

It must have been dead. Had to be.

And then, with the suddenness of lightning, the creature reared back, coughing fitfully as stinging salt water poured, endless, from its mouth and nose. The sea seemed to hang on as it dragged itself further onto land, but the creature was stronger, and as it rose, many waters streamed away and fled back into the depths.

The figure stood for a moment on shaky legs, still coughing and hacking and gasping for air - and when it had caught its breath, it shook out its fur and resolved itself into the shape of a shewolf, tall and brown and with seal-sleek furs. Its eyes, though blood-shot, were not dulled by its time spent as a dead thing. They were gold, and they shined like the sun.

Mannoah coughed once more and lowered herself to her belly in the sands, ears turning back as her burning suns scorched across the place in which she'd found herself.

 
The water beat against the shore with a quiet rage that he could not ignore.  
 
Deirdre had said that he should use the ocean as a therapy to help his wounds heal, but he found himself irritated by the thought that he could not move through the swell as he had before. It was almost as though he had been stripped of everything that made him leviathan. But he still roamed the sandy shores and he felt the gentle touch of the water against his ankles as he reminisced about his savage abilities within the depths. More than this, though, the blackrock still called to him from the saline waters. He was furious that he could not answer.  
 
Padding forward, the wraith felt the breeze of autumn as it darted through his thick coat and played with the missing fur along his shoulder. Every so often he would allow his dark gaze to roam to the wound and he would frown. His body had been tarnished before, but he had never found himself so stripped of his inky pelt. It would scar heavily, he knew, but it was a sign of his victory. Deirdre had said that the water would soothe him, but he thought to her healing ways and he found himself growing more sour. It was almost as though the thought of recovery had planted a foul seed inside of him and it was ready to bloom.  
 
Drawing his gaze upward, the leviathan caught sight of an unfamiliar lump within his sands. The fur along his neck and spine bristled fiercely and he limped forward, internally thrashing himself for the lack of mobility that he had adopted since the bear attack. It would be an immediate sign of weakness if this creature were to bring harm to the depths. But it appeared that they were stranded within the waters, and she had tossed the stranger to the shores as a gift.  
 
Closing the space between them as the wolf coughed up the saline waters, he furrowed his brows over deep mahogany eyes. Skellige's lip curled over his yellowed canines and he drew his crown upward so that he towered over her slumped frame. "How unfortunate that you should wash ashore here," he drawled coldly to the figure.  
 
The breeze brought a cold snap as it tossed through the tangle of dark fur along his neck and shoulders. For a moment, he resembled the dredge of his homeland. For a moment, he had found his strength again.  

The sea did not relinquish her easily - her gut was gripped again and again as she emptied her stomach upon the sands, and when Mannoah could finally lift her head, it was to see a hulking beast drawing nearer. Though outwardly she merely straightened, her heart quailed at the look of wrath upon his face.

Still, blank, unreadable, Mannoah stood her ground as he approached, projecting neither haughtiness nor deference. Only the flicker of her ears as she took in his words betrayed her nervousness.

Though the words were meaningless to the foreign woman, the tone in which they were spoken was not lost on her. The white-banded man held her in little esteem, and meant, in all probability, to do harm to her. The thought was displeasing, to say the least.

Seeing no way out of the situation, Mannoah finally moved, lowering her belly to the ground and waiting for the wolf to make his move. Her legs were coiled to spring, but she didn't. Not yet. Burning orbs scanned the horizon once more before cutting back to the male, cagey and fierce.

Do your worst, they said. I am ready.

The strange wolf seemed to cower before him, though he was not certain if it was out of exhaustion or fear of his looming figure over her head. Her belly lowered to touch the sands beneath her and he lifted his tail in response. She had endured something fierce for the water to spit her onto his bay. It was not necessary for him to warn her that she had not found sanctuary in his home. The Blackrock thrummed like a war drum in his ears. It urged him to lean forward and sink his fangs into the soft flesh of her throat. If he could not show his strength in the water, he would thrust it on those who walked the land. She did not belong there, he already knew. Still, there was a crack in his sanity that could not be expressed. A savage glint had struck his dark gaze and he leaned forward with ill intent. 

"Rise," his voice echoed with a snarl, and the word exited his lips like a hiss from a coiled viper. Already he had imagined keeping her there. He was hatching thoughts in his mind that had no sound reason to ground them, but they were formed with a desperate conviction. He wanted to know that his emotions were in check, but they raged inside of him like a typhoon. The wolf before him did not know the wrath that would follow her landing on the shores of Blackrock, but she would surely regret the actions that lead her there. 

Another word she didn't know. The man's voice was ice and silk, not meant to soothe despite the low volume at which it was spoken. Mannoah's legs shook with the strain of her readiness; she was very tired, very weak.

When would she sleep again? Would she ever be safe?

The wolf glowered and menaced, but made no move to attack. Mannoah's tail wagged hesitantly, a question. Will you kill me? Am I safe? she wondered, but there was no way to ask. Instead, she pushed haltingly to her paws, creeping forward in an uncertain attempt at peace. She did not want to touch the man, to anger him, but it seemed a good test of limitations.

It would tell her what was allowed, at least. Would she be allowed to rest, or driven at once from the territory? (Would they kill her? She still didn't know.)

The cold still bit at her toes, her ears. All she could think, feel, smell was the cold of the sea.

He was fractured, but the castaway would not have known that. The molten burning of her gaze was vacant, and so it did well to fuel his burning rage. The titan continued his internal battle to reach forward and rip her throat clean from her body. Should the sea demand a sacrifice, he would be certain to provide it. The lingering scent of her heat was enough to prevent his vicious instincts from following through.
 
Sniffing, the inky brute leaned forward until he was nearly on top of her washed frame. She did not appear as though she would fight him if he were to touch her, and so he made a motion to graze his fangs against the skin of her shoulders. If she should move to attack him, the dark sea wolf would strike her down and move forward. Her body would provide food for his wolves, and he would have no qualms with devouring her sweet flesh if the great ones had provided her. His teeth hungered for the blood of another wolf.
 
But his mind wandered to the empty youth ranks, and his plan to build an empire from the ground.
 
The heat that she was enduring would be necessary to his plans. So he did not lash out against her, and he did not flash his fangs in rage. Instead, he allowed her to creep forward, still holding his looming position over her body. It was obvious that she did not understand him, but he would force his name into her mind until it had left a burning impression there.
 
“Skellige,” his voice spilled like lava from his lips.

Relief came over her like a thick fog when she was not met with aggression - his teeth brushed her, whispering danger down her spine, but he did not lash out, did not tear or rend. If she had not seen his face a moment before, she might even have thought the touch to be a tender one.

But she had seen his face.

Skellige. The word did not register as a name - not to Mannoah. To the vapid shewolf, it sounded much more like a battle cry. Equally an accusation of weakness and declaration: I dare you. Skellige. The first word she would remember him speaking. The first word of this new tongue she would have to learn.

"Skellige," she repeated, quietly - though it was not spoken against the man, but in favor.

Mannoah was allowed near him, she discovered, and at the same time she discovered that she desired to be near him. Her bones were too weary to want for much - food, clean water, a place to rest - but among those was a desire for the man and his nearness. The overpowering scent of him, blood and salt. Her eyes swam as she held back more coughs, instead inhaling the essence of the larger wolf. An alpha's scent, doubtless, and it made her thirsty. Clean water. Blood and salt.

Mannoah would take what was given.

Skellige…
 
Her voice struck him in a peculiar way. He drew the length of his dark ears forward and lifted his tail upward – it was a gesture to show her that she had done well. It was still evident that she had no idea what his name meant or why he had instructed that she use the word. Nevertheless, he was keen on teaching her that it was the only important thing she should know. In that moment, he did not fear that she would escape the depths. The cool touch of the water had pulled her under.
 
Swiveling a single ear toward the crashing of the waves, the wraith frowned at the female. There was no suitable rank for her – nothing other than the Jetsam. He did not care to hear her own name, but then he did not imagine that she would attempt to share it. Instead of offering one for her, he suspected he would call her by the rank that she would occupy. She would be the lowest of their kind.
 
“Come,” he instructed with a gesture of his crown. It was time to show her the perimeters – she needed to know where her limbs would not be permitted to cross.
 
The leviathan did not imagine that he would allow her to have her own den. She would remain in the caves that he called his own. There were enough caverns there that would allow for moderate privacy if she should need it. He did not imagine that there would be a reason for her to request her own living quarters. The female could hardly speak, he realized, but her lack of a common tongue would be a relief to him. Skellige had grown so very tired of words.

Something in the ragged beast seemed to recede, allowing Mannoah to take her first true, full breath since his arrival. The vice-like grip he'd wrought on her lungs was released, as though the flagging of his tail had been the signal for his demon spirits to relent and have pity on her. He must truly be a powerful sorceror to have such darkness at his beck and call, but Mannoah had already taken him to be a powerful wolf. His banded ribs spoke of ancient heraldry that she did not recognized but could certainly acknowledge - it was unwise to deny the spirits their due.

Mannoah knew now what havoc they could wreck on heedless souls. Wickedness had swallowed her and brought her to this place, where she seemed bound to be ruled by this wicked king. At least this one seemed to know mercy, and drew aside beckoning instead of dragging.

The dark woman was quick to follow, understanding that she lived now at the banded demon's pleasure. It was a situation that she was not unused to, but one that she'd hoped to escape with her latest foray into the sea. Hers had been a long journey, full of misfortune and despair at every turn. Maybe some sea water was still rioting in her belly or maybe the wicked sea had pumped evil into her veins, but this fate... it seemed more hopeful than most. Kindness was not in her, and so she could no longer believe such things of others - but the demon had spared her. Hadn't harmed her in any way.

"Skellige," she said under her breath, practicing the tongue of her new master. Her thoughts, however, quickly strayed as she hurried to page homage to the beast that'd bound her. Her legs remained low and locked, her steps stunted but quick as she crawled alongside him, instinct telling her that she should place herself under him - that it would be good. Her nose probed along his banded fur, taking in more of the blood-and-salt scent. Other needs seemed to fade away; the ache of her bones was forgotten and replaced with new fire in her loins.

Mannoah wondered if he would mount her, or if it would be too great a gift for a slave like herself.