Stavanger Bay fury and reason

The ghost was not yet old, but with the starvation that set on the land around them like a plague, he could feel his bones creak in the mornings. He had known hardship and turmoil; he had fought many battles in his time and had travelled an expanse of the earth that he did not imagine many wolves in the Teekon could. He had found homes in more packs and clans than he could scarcely remember. But this was difficult, and the ashen brute was truly alone in this moment.
 
Long legs draped in pale grey led him along the shoreline in search of an area that would allow for him to fish. His body was tired and thin; the fur along his neck and shoulders rose upwards, making him look defensive and savage at all times. The sharp glint in his fiery golden gaze had turned more than a few wolves away from his presence. The Sairensu male did not know how to seek companionship in times of duress. He was not certain that he even wanted it, but not having the familiar blood of his sister at his side had become tiresome. Moz had always been a steady rock in times of turmoil.
 
Picking his way into the ocean waters where the waves did not roll too high, the ghostly figure looked carefully into the depths of the sea in search of fish. If he did not catch something soon, he feared that he would not survive the duration of the week.

Despite his better judgement, Floki allowed his restless paws to draw him away from Moonspear. The going was slow and he stopped often to rest, but a desire to see the ocean and smell the salty air drove him onward. He hardly paid attention to his surroundings as he traveled, tracing the all-too-familiar route that would bring him to his former home. The landscape blurred into an expanse of brown and his senses dulled -- at least until the roar of the ocean reached his ears.

He emerged from the woods that lined the inner sanctuary of Stavanger Bay, his toes sinking into the sand. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the humid air tousle his fur. He had avoided visiting his father's desecrated grave; he had no desire to look upon the remains of what had once been Ragnar's resting place. Like Charon and Tevinter, he preferred to believe that their father was looking down on them from somewhere else -- whether that was Valhalla or some other heavenly place.

The youth padded towards the waves and paused when he noticed a pale figure a ways down the coastline. He bristled instinctively; the last wolves he had met here had been unfriendly, and there was no telling what hunger had done to the residents of the Teekon Wilds. His own stomach gave a twist, as though reminding him of its emptiness, and he waded into the shallow water, keeping his peripheral vision trained on the rangy wolf.

Summer was fast approaching on the Teekon Wilds, but somehow that did nothing to ebb the chill in the water. The ghostly figure could feel his pelt prickle with each lap of the waves against his legs until they began to roll upwards towards his chest. Kierkegaard huffed through his nostrils and pulled himself some ways back until he did not feel the strength of the sea luring him into her frightening depths. There was something intimidating about the ocean waves; if he trained his golden gaze on the distance, he still could not see an end to her. Supposedly, she would offer to fuel his aching gut if he could find himself capable of searching deeper.
 
Fighting the urge to simply turn and abandon his attempt at fishing, the ash-coated brute caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his gaze. Darting fiery optics down the coast a bit, he locked his sights with a figure of similar coloring; smoke and charcoal. It seemed as though this stranger was keen to simply watch Kierkegaard. The ragged fur along his neck and shoulders was tugged upward with a brush of wind, and with it came the overpowering scent of brine and a foreign pack aroma that he could only assume belonged to the strange wolf.
 
Unsure of himself and whether or not he was willing to traverse down the beach to seek out this other scavenger, Kierke hunkered his head down towards the waters and peered at the silver-coated wolf with a hint of curiosity in his eyes. If there was a chance that this stranger was proficient in the waters, the Sairensu male could learn from watching.

From the corner of his eye, Floki could see subtle movement that indicated that the other wolf had noticed him. But the stranger did not call out or move towards him. For now, Floki focused on the feel of the waves splashing gently against his ankles, breathing deeply to pull the briny air into his lungs. He wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the moment, but feared letting his guard down; for all he knew, the other wolf could attack when he least expected it.

Seconds ticked past and then Floki slowly turned towards his distant companion. Blue eyes observed quietly, taking in the male's appearance, and then he dropped his head ever so slightly, offering a wordless greeting meant to indicate his good intentions. He often enjoyed interacting with the wolves he met during his travels, but had learned to follow their lead; if an individual presented as hostile, then he would know to be defensive.

With the water swirling around his feet -- and the flash of small silver fish evident beneath the surface -- he stepped in the direction of the ashen wolf, feeling a change in the breeze as he shifted his body.

The dust-footed stranger made an effort to demonstrate that he did not intend harm. Kierkegaard – the ever silent statue – returned the bobbing of his skull in hopes that this would be enough to bide him the temporary companionship of the other wolf. With their wordless gestures, the stranger began to turn in the direction of where the ashen ghost stood. The breeze ruffled the long hairs along his neck and spite, and the rangy creature shivered against it, breathing heavily through his nose. The Sairensu male had been met and challenged with many things in his life, but he had never felt so tired in all his travels. The hunger that gnawed at his gut was – at best – unbearable for the specter.
 
Fiery eyes followed the movements of the Moonspear wolf with a ragged expression on his face. He hardly had the strength in him to fight the other male, should he choose to attack. Instead, Kierkegaard simply remained rooted to the sands and the water, swaying with the gentle bumps against his chest and legs. It would have been polite to make a remark to the stranger, but the brute had never found himself capable of good manners.
 
The fish did not seem to be bothered by his presence in the water any longer; they had braved the sea between even his long legs. Once or twice, he could feel one of their bodies brush against his ankle. He shuddered against it, frowning downward at the darting silver bodies. The muscles in his shoulders quivered and the ghost staggered backwards, darkness touching at the edges of his eyes. Somehow, he managed to hold his ground. The approaching stranger was the last thought in his mind.

Both males continued to calculate one another quietly, Floki while wading slowly through the shallows. There was no need to talk, and he imagined that they could probably move on from this interaction without verbally communicating at all. They would be like two ships passing in the night, occupying the same space but without any commitment.

But when the stranger suddenly reeled backward, almost as if off balance, Floki paused and bristled instinctively. One paw was suspended over the waves, droplets of water dripping from his toes as he watched the other wolf warily. Despite this abrupt and unexplained behavior, he still did not feel as though his safety was compromised. From a distance, he called out, "Are you okay?"

The voice almost did not register as it was offered to Kierkegaard. His body shuddered once more and he could feel himself growing weak; the gentle lap of the waves did little more than to make him feel ill. The touch of the fish against his limbs was as insulting as it was frustrating. When blackness seemed to fold on his vision once more, the brute moved another step backwards and breathed a deep sigh. It was a desperate hope that if he were to steady his breathing, it would steady his ragged figure. The stranger in the shallows had shown a sort of wary concern for the swaying beast, but he was not quite capable of expressing his inability to move, let alone speak.
 
Lifting his head, the ghost peered into the eyes of the other wolf with an expression that may have seemed… almost pitiful. The gold of his gaze was softened by the gloss that covered them. Kierkegaard parted his mouth to speak to his other man, to beckon him closer, to teach him to fish; the only thing that was emitted from his lips was a quiet whine of misery. Without warning, the darkness came for him, and the haggard man felt his limbs give way. As his body struck against the shallow water, the fish that had fluttered nearby darted away in surprise.
 
His breathing was shallow and pained, and his figure was suffering. Still, he wished to call to the grey-cloaked man in the water. Show me to fish… help me. But he was becoming lost to the shadows that had stolen his vision and knocked him to the earth.  

There was no verbal response; simply a haunted gaze turned his way, and then, without preamble, the other wolf collapsed into the surf. Floki's hackles lifted in alarm and his legs tensed, caught off guard by the sudden turn of events. A quick scan of the beach revealed that there were no other wolves around; they were alone, and the stranger needed help.

He waded towards the pale wolf, ears cupped forward in caution. He found himself desperately wishing that Thistle Cloud was accompanying him. He needed her medical knowledge. He had no idea what the male needed or what was wrong with him. Floki paused, the water lapping gently against his ankles. It seemed prudent to get the wolf out of the shallows, but he doubted he could do it alone; he gnawed at his lower lip with uncertainty.

Finally, he reached down to nudge gently at the male's shoulder, a sort of experimental touch. If given a signal, he would attempt to pull him onto the shore by his scruff, but he would be tentative until he was sure his own safety wouldn't be compromised.

There was warmth in that darkness; a strange sense of comfort that seemed to wrap around the ghostly beast and hold him close. He could feel the dull ache of his gut, but it did not register in the same manner that it had before. Perhaps he was dying, and the lulling of the darkness was washing away the hunger inside of him and replacing it with warmth. Should he have known, the ash-coated feral would not have put himself in such a vulnerable situation with the stranger in the waters, but fortunes were high for him on that day.
 
There was a soft nudge against his shoulder, which elicited a quiet and shaky exhale of breath. The fire in his gaze was still hidden by his closed lids, and his limbs remained limp and useless in the shallows of the water. The touch of another wolf was something strange to him; he had spent so much time alone that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to have the breath of another touch the fur on his body. The cold wet of the other male’s nose as it pressed to his shoulder uncertainly.
 
It was almost like a dream. Floki was safe, though; in spite of the haggard appearance of the ashen brute, he was not in the mindset to react harshly or with violence. 

When the only reaction he was given was an audible sigh, Floki made his decision. He moved around the wolf, until he stood with his paws near his shoulders. Then he leaned down, preparing to attempt to move him. Even shifting him just slightly towards the shore would be better than leaving him lying in a few inches of ebbing water. He paused long enough to let the male know what he was going to do. "I'm going to try to move you onto the beach," he explained in low tones.

He then gently mouthed the fur at the back of his neck, giving a gentle tug or two -- both to test how heavy the wolf was and to make sure that he wouldn't lash out at the effort to help.

just slap him a bit. it ought to do the trick. <3

The dusty-legged stranger’s words sounded muffled and foreign to the brute. It was entirely possible that, if he were more lucid, he would have behaved in a very different manner. Kierkegaard was not a creature of hospitality, and had never truly shared a moment of kindness with another wolf. The stranger in the shallows was something of a marvel.
 
The tugging against the scruff of his neck did little to rouse him, but did procure a gentle grunt from the ragged ghost. His eyes fluttered for a fraction of a moment and he jerked a limb involuntarily. Whether or not the wolf from Moonspear was aware, he was helping to save the life of the great ashen brute. Should he get him to land and rouse him from his tired starvation, Kierkegaard would have owed him a great deal.
 
Rapid breathing followed the jerk of his leg and a quiet, almost pitiful whine from the back of his throat. This was painful; this starvation was killing him.

*throws a fish at him*

More than once, Floki thought about just abandoning his pursuit and leaving the stranger on the beach. It wouldn't have any effect on his life -- he could go on his way without repercussion. But he kept pulling, tugging inch by inch until the wolf's head was away from the lapping waves. At least now, should he go unconscious, he wouldn't have to worry about being drowned in shallow water -- at least, not until the tide came in.

There was little response from the white wolf save for a breathy whine and the twitch of one of his legs. Floki stepped back to survey the scene; he realized that he hadn't truly managed to move the male very far at all, but still he was satisfied. He had done something. He huffed through his nostrils then turned; a small silver lump on the beach drew his attention and he moved towards it quickly. It was a fish that had washed up and had been apparently been left behind by the sea. Odd, but extremely lucky; Floki would bet that this didn't often happen.

His own stomach gave a hungry twist, but he picked up the fish and brought it back to the stranger. He dropped it near the wolf's face; he wanted to be on his way, but would wait long enough to see if he had enough strength to eat.

This has been going on for ages! I'd love another at some point tho if you're down for it. <3

Fate – as it would seem – was on the side of the ghostly figure. He had been blessed by the kindness of a complete stranger in a time were most wolves were scrounging for their meals, not only to feed the angry hunger that barked inside of their guts, but to feed their starving families as well. Kierkegaard was nothing more than a creature bound to no-one, and yet he had been touched by the good heart of this dusty-legged male who had appeared from nowhere.
 
The scent of fish roused the male somewhat, and his fiery optics shot open to blink once or twice in surprise at the events unfolding around him. Breathing heavily, the ghost parted his jaws and drew his tongue across the salty body of the fish. It reeked, but he was so deranged from hunger that it tasted of the high heavens. With shaky movements, the man moved to prop himself up on his shoulders and parted his jaws so that he could feed. It was only then that he recalled the stranger, and turned his vision on the male who had been so patient with his figure in the water. Fixing him with the fire of his gaze, the brute bobbed his head out of respect, unable – at first – to find the right words.
 
“I… I owe you a great deal,” he rumbled in a cracking baritone, rusty from lack of use. His tail thumped once and he cast a grateful expression on his grizzled features. “I am Kierkegaard, and I have already taken a great deal of your time, but your actions will not be forgotten.” The ghostly brute then returned to the fish and swallowed it in a manner of three large bites.

Yes! <3 My last post!

Floki couldn't stop the saliva from pooling in his mouth as he watched the white wolf stir and then lick the fish. The taste appeared to be enough to rouse him, for he re-positioned himself as though preparing to eat. Had he not shifted, Floki might have taken back his gift and swallowed it in one bite as he high-tailed it across the beach; however, while his stomach was empty, he was pleased that he had been able to help a stranger.

His ears cupped forward as the male thanked him and then introduced himself. "You're welcome, Kierkegaard. I'm Floki," he replied, taking a step back. Kierkegaard moved to consume his meager meal and Floki took that as his sign to depart. He didn't speak anything further, but turned and trotted up the coast, his paws pressing into the wet sand as he continued north.

The other introduced himself as Floki before he decided that he needed to depart. The great ghostly creature did not stop him in his trek, for he had already taken a great deal of the other man’s time. Instead, his fiery gaze followed the path of the kindly stranger until he had disappeared. Once the brute had managed to gather enough of his strength, he rose shakily to his paws and continued his search for fish inside of the lapping waters that touched the shore.
 
After having gathered enough to sustain himself, Kierkegaard departed from the sea with a peculiar madness inside of him. His mind churned with thoughts of how he could survive, and he found himself at the only conclusion he could muster; he would need to take a pack as his own.