Sequoia Coast and bound by crooked plan

@Skellige — this is backdated and we should probably work out when because i suck at keeping up. :X

Perhaps he's lucky that he didn't recall the plummet that had brought him into contact with the sea. This is hardly the thought that crosses his mind when consciousness comes rushing back, though to say it came rushing back was not entirely truthful either. It came back like water leaking through a sieve, bits and pieces that coaxed him into awareness with little recollection to the hows and whys of what he was doing lying in damp saltmarsh on a particularly humid evening. Or was it morning? The disorientation was unreal, having pushed past the boundaries of what Mordecai would have deemed as real; he was lucky he had a grasp on what was up from down and maybe the rest of those cardinal directions would come back to him.

He was prone, blindside against the loam and his sighted side not at all inclined to open up and figure day from night. His head throbbed, his body ached, and he felt consumed by a weakness that was far worse than anything he had experienced up to that point. Dehydration was a real threat if exposure didn't get to him first. He had been fair shape for all things considered when he had been limply sent over a cliffside edge—and that alone may have attributed to saving him. He hadn't dared to make the tentative test of his limbs to figure out what was hurting because it had a reason and what wasn't. He relented against it for the longest time, far too confused as to why he was lying there when he had been so certain he had been elsewhere.

And it came back to him finally, the events of what had brought him out of the coast. Larkspur. It felt like a bad dream. A nauseous sensation rolled through him and his throat seized painfully as another reminder. He recalled the wolves of the coast in unfocused detail. Mordecai couldn't have picked them out of a lineup days later from the event, but he remembered their actions. He remembered the swiftness in their decisions and ultimately found himself overwhelmed once again with one particular imagery that played into his mind—his daughter being hurled to the sea.

With a pained gasp, his working eye opened to the searing sting of twilight and lingering saltwater.

the dear hunter — never forgive, never forget