Seaside Moors fallen

In the wake of his brother's supposed death, Jagoda was a lost creature. The way life had unfolded was not the way that he had anticipated, and it tore at the stone cold strings of his heart. If ever something could occur that would cause the stoic beast sadness, it was the disappearance of Skellige. But it was the hand that he had been dealt. No amount of wallowing would change it. 

Yet, he had to do something. And so it was upon the brink of morning that he arose from his den and loped along the coast, beyond the borders of the Depths. The ragged cliffs soon morphed into softer sands. It was along the waterline that he jogged, his movement labored slightly by the damp sand that threatened to swallow his paws. In his wake were deformed footsteps, pools of saltwater collecting in each congealed paw print. He continued on, his unease relieved by the work of his muscles as he jogged in the wet sand.

The winter had been more oppressive than expected. It was then that Athan contemplated joining one of the packs that so prominently dominated the land. If not for his own sake, then for Mazatl. He had been bleeding the boy dry, and it seemed that he would not last for much longer without food in him. Most of the food he caught he caught for his băiat, but even that took its toll on him.

With the morning Athan left Mazatl in the hole where they staked out the freezing rain, the thundersnow. With a shake of his pelt, the strigoi began his prowl through the coastline, searching for something more substantial than mere seabirds and crabs. He found it, though it suited Athan's tastes more than Mazatl's. He resisted the urge to lick his lips as the wolf trotted alongside the shore in his direction.