Sea Lion Shores Rotten tropics by the sea

Calling Mary and her @Kierkegaard.

After receiving confirmation of Lasher’s death, Sassafras decided to linger just a little longer near the coast. It had been nearly a year since she had stood in the seafoam of the shores and she was sorely missing it, but to get there required more effort than she had anticipated. The fresh scent of a pack at Stavanger Bay caused her to divert her preferred direct path and carefully pick her way along outside their borders. It was not without a little luck, she was certain, that no one had stopped or threatened her. The wolves of Donnelaith were a rare breed to be so forthcoming, and she was left with an unfamiliar sense of calm after departing. This brief repose did not translate to stupidity, however, and so she proceeded with caution.

The barking of sea lions could be heard far from the sandy shores as she approached, causing the light to return to her warm mahogany eyes. She had thought that just seeing the open ocean rolling forward and back could have sated her longing, but now that she was there, she felt compelled to trot out to the edge to feel the waves rush over her small, pitch black paws. She kept a healthy distance between herself and the sea lions, but she watched them interact and laze about with a bright smile as she walked in the surf, feeling at ease with the resistance of the tide as it moved against her.

He had found a refuge inside of Saltwinter, and while he was incapable of expressing his gratitude appropriately, Kierkegaard was bound and determined to show it to the witch of the ocean. Caiaphas had saved him more than he cared to admit. While he had always found a way to drift apart from others, there was a gravitational pull back to the coywolf female. It would not be long before age would take a toll on his figure, and all of those years of travel would finally begin to weigh down on his body. The ashen brute did not know how long he would feel youth in his limbs. Already, the shape of his figure had taken on a serpentine look; he had strange dips in his muscle that had turned him into a gaunt and spectral sight to behold. The mercenary was fading into a true ghost.
 
Padding along the shoreline with his head held low and his fiery gaze trailing the tossing waves, Kierke released a heavy sigh from his inky lips. The Teekon Wilds did not feel like home to him. Then again, there had never truly been a place that had provided a sense of belonging for the wandering brute. As he had grown more haggard and damaged, he had found that long bouts of travel were more hazardous to his wellbeing than anything else. While he still longed to point his nose on unknown terrain and venture forth, the ghost knew that his years would be few if he sought that lifestyle.
 
If he had not been keeping his eye on the horizon, the ashen wanderer would have completely missed the inky speck in the waters. Once his vision had struck her, though, he halted in his tracks and sucked in a breath of surprise. For a second, he thought that he was looking upon a ghost. That was until he realized that he did not know the swarthy character in the waves. She might have held some familiarity, but she was just as much a stranger to him as the sea lions who waddled to shore. Still, there was something in the sharp angles of her body and the jagged lines of fur about her shoulders. He could not help but to stare.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled her rugged hackles as she lowered her nose to the spindrift, causing tiny droplets to catch in sensitively flared nostrils. She snorted coltishly, but not without a flash of sheer delight that ignited the warm wood hues of her wide eyes. The coastal wolf half blood was happier to be there on the sandy shores than she could remember in recent memory, and she could not help but wonder with a reticent twinge of disbelief at how she had always, apparently, taken the wild ocean for granted. In a spritely display of youth, she abruptly kicked into a languid canter, sending up an airy spray of seafoam. Already there was a faint dusting of sea salt clinging to her raven fur.

The waves contended with the lengthy strides of her slender legs, but it was not their hindrance that made her stop dead in her tracks. Off in the distance stood an ashen behemoth whose golden-orange eyes watched her like a keen hawk, and while there was nothing about his posture that suggested a threat of any kind, Sassafras was understandably wary. Her dark, bladed hackles prickled in a spiky display of instinct and her head raised just as quickly as she noticed him. Jet black nostrils felt the now delicate breeze for his scent, but it was the piercing eyes that held to her that she found disquieting.

For several moments, it seemed as though they were locked in a stand-off. Who would move first? Being a young and impatient creature, Sassafras stretched out one lithe paw, and then another. Before she knew it, she was slowly slinking towards him, but conscious of being just as ready to turn tail and bolt if the situation changed. The aging gauntness of his form did nothing to dissuade her from sensing that his was a physique that commanded respect and demanded she tread carefully. She couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that she might be pushing her luck.

The inky girl took note of his figure and the pale brute regarded her with narrowed brows over fiery golden-orange optics. It seemed – in that moment – that they were to hold each other only in sight. The ghost was interested, but not enough so that he might close the distance on the girl. Instead, he watched as she took a tentative step forward. The brute tensed and lowered his skull toward the sands. He knew enough of war to protect himself. The treading of the dark female was not made out of hostility, though; it seemed that she was approaching him on careful steps. There was something familiar in the amber of her eyes. Had he been a more verbose creature, he would have inquired if they had met once before. Kierkegaard was not certain that he would remember all of the wolves he had encountered in his life. He doubted many of them were still around. Yet, this girl caused his skin to prick with goosebumps and the jagged fur along his neck and spine to rise upward.
 
The haggard creature could almost scent her as she approached, and when he had decided that she had drawn herself close enough, he peeled his lips over jagged canines and issued a warning. The length of his ears swiveled atop his crown and the brute moved with his own step forward. The burning of his gaze did not leave the dark-furred girl. Kierkegaard watched and wondered what her next move would be. If she would decide to move closer, she would be met with a savage snarl.  

The ghostly ashen male moved forward, and despite her former interest Sassafras felt her instincts prickle knowingly. She uttered a guttural little growl of uncertainty accompanied by a coltish snort of apprehension, firmly rooted in the idea that she wasn’t up for a fight. Instead, she danced away on sprightly paws that deftly connected with the grainy, slipping sands beneath her, spinning her hindquarters about her front when she was again some distance away. She lowered her head to gaze at him from afar — clearly curious, but knowing full well, now, he was not to be trifled with. He was in a league apart from her entirely.

Letting forth a deep breath that sounded like a huff, and standing there poised but inert, it was equally clear that she was not yet prepared to leave of her own volition. Her back would not be turned unless he chose to convey convincing indifference or unless he made to chase her away, although she was keen to continue to bounce away with flighty little steps. A baffling thought occurred to her after a passing moment — she did not immediately distrust him, and she could not discern why.

He was of the purest wilds, if nothing else. It was a thing she could understand.