Sequoia Coast With only a paper shield and a wooden sword.

The mid-morning sun cast a pallid glow across the surface of the sea when Malachi finally placed a paw upon the lands known to others as the Sequoia Coast. The boy's legs quivered as he proceeded along the loamy cliff, and he held himself at a distance from the sheer drop that threatened his life if he dared venture too close. After spending so long in the mountains, the sheer barrenness of the land made his skin prick and he felt his senses evermore alert to all that surrounded him, from the seabirds screeching overhead to the subtle spray of sea mist slowly drenching his fur. Bitter wind sent a biting chill down his spine, and he found himself longing to be back under the protection of the Glacier's crags and evergreens.

Scanning his surroundings through narrowed eyes, Malachi met the sight with a frown. The coastline seemed to stretch as far as the valley had from Duskfire, and with no knowledge to find Caiaphas but the name of Stavanger Bay and the woman's general scent, he realized soon enough he knew not where to go nor even how to start. Forcing back his rising doubts, Malachi tried to see if he could spot a parcel of land a pack might claim as their home, but he was met by only sandy shores and intermittent cliffs. Thoughts of turning back were ever present in his mind, but he stubbornly resisted their will. He had come too far to give up now.

The cold was unbearable, yes, but there was something wickedly alluring about the coast and what it had to offer. The coywolf had trailed behind the strange male for some short time, keeping a good stretch of distance between them. His sharp yellow eyes curiously sought where the stranger could have been wandering, only to find that the unfamiliar dog seemed not to know himself. With a curling smirk, Gluska slunk forward with a quickened pace and yipped for the male ahead of him. The coywolf must have cast a disheveled appearance; russet-tinged fur slathered in brine and salt from the ocean. His limbs ragged from the winter’s chill.

“Are you lost?” the coywolf inquired with a flashing grin. He had grown familiar with the coast in his short time there. Still, the stranger before Gluska did not seem to be searching for companionship. He appeared to be a creature with intent. The trickster knew nothing of his sister’s hand in the distress of the pack wolf. He did not care. However, depending on their conversation, the two males could have found themselves in a peculiar position.

He hadn't paced far when another noise caught his attention, one starkly different from the sounds common to the sea. Malachi's ear turned first before the rest of his head followed suit, crystalline eyes falling upon an angular figure who fast approached. Tasting the air with a hasty breath, Malachi picked up nothing but the encompassing scent of sea salt and the pungent taste of wet fur.

Whether or not Malachi would call himself lost was a point he would argue. He knew where he was, and he knew his way home. He knew where he wanted to go - he just didn't know the way there. Malachi took a moment to consider before answering the stranger. "No." But he hesitated, and after a pause added, "Well, not exactly." Shifting to face the man entirely, the boy analyzed the wolf again. Like a creature from the sea, the stranger dripped of salty brine, and his longer fur stuck in wayward clumps. If not a native to this place, Malachi took him to be comfortable with it at the least. Turning his head slightly, his eyes narrowed in contemplative question. "Do you know these shores well?"