Stavanger Bay to light a candle is to cast a shadow

It was not something that he found enjoyable, but the yearling had found something in the bay that had captivated him. Something equally profound had drawn him to the remnants of the forest where his mother had lived. The beginnings of new life and the ash that had been washed away from the woodland and into the trenches nearby where it would leave no mark and soon vanish. Though the rainfall had been dismal, Knaven could not help but to feel some amount of gratitude that it had washed away the memories of that fire and cast a new light on the sentinels.
 
The young druid stood on the edge of the bay and the wood, a pensive expression on his features. He peered into the forest and frowned. Knowing that it had been a number of years since the damage had occurred, it only made sense that it would be years before the sentinels were ever returned to their former glory. Knaven could not help but wonder what it would be like to watch something like that but found the thought too fanciful to hold his attention for long. He turned away from the border of the sentinels and back to the sea with a quiet exhale.

Hope it's okay that I join :D

From deep in the forest, Miranda contemplates a nest overhead. Once you were out on a job to track someone down, the first thing to check was the bird nests. You could find almost everything you needed there: tufts of fur, maybe even an ear or an eye if the pursuer had a lot of luck and the persuant had a depressing lack of it.

But there was no job. There might not be one, for a while. He hawks and spits to the side, revels in the smoothness of his muscle memory. The wind picks up and the foliage moves as if pushed back by an invisible hand. In those few moments, he sees a stranger.

Dark, young, and taller, he thinks, resigned, despairing over his genes and scuffing dirt over the spitball. The ocean roars as thousands of tons of water are displaced by the currents and the waves, stepping in and stepping out. All that weight on top of the seafloor, carrying all that sand. If the world had an edge, this would be it. He thinks about the animals, the plants, the minerals, being broken and reassembled every day, dragged out to the surf like the ugliest bridal train in the world. 

See anything out there? He walks out of the woods. It was all the same to him. Just like how all around the world, you could walk into a coffee shop or a church and not know what country you were in. To others it might've been a declaration of Mother Nature's monopoly on power. To Miranda it was liminal space, as effaced as a doctor's waiting room.

Completely okay! Thanks for grabbing my thread (:

’See anything out there?’
 
A voice sounds from the woods behind him. For a moment, Knaven felt stricken by having missed the individual when he had been searching the sentinels just moments before his arrival. All of those cheerful talks about spirits from his mother flooded to his memory. The druid breathed through his nares and inhaled the sharp tangy aroma of the sea. This was grounding for the rogue who then turned to face the approacher and to size him up.
 
The figure was shorter than he, but not dramatically. He did not seem to be lacking meat on his bones, at least he appeared healthy at first glance. Knaven felt more inclined to chat with the fellow when he didn’t appear to be much harm. The idea of how his frightful father would view such feelings made his stomach churn and he cast a crooked smirk to the stranger.
 
“Out there?” the druid gestured to the sea and the vast ocean that stretched beyond.
 
“I always see something out there. But growing up with the ocean’ll probably have somethin’ to do with that,” the rogue then added and the warm intensity of his gaze drifted back toward the water. There was very little that he could do to fight his propensity for the sea. The Cairn family had lived by the water and died by the water for generations. It was fated, the spooks had told him reverently during his totem ceremony. None of it had made much of a difference to him, not until he’d actually seen the bay.
 
“You from ‘round these parts?”

From the very first word that came out of his mouth, Miranda knew that the voice could only come from a lifetime of standing by the sea, watching the tide roll in with horizons of dark shingles and sails, watching the waves flake up against rock like pie crust. 

With a generous heaping of teasing incredulity, he says, So you're an honest-to-god sailor. Or wickie. Or whatever it is... 

I'm from way up north, in the mountains. Alaska had gone fragmented in his mind, solid forms blurring together, a swath of greys, browns, midnight suns and polar nights. His time with the Gray Brothers was suddenly so insubstantial, it could be torn into piece by a single gale. Three years, turned to dust. He turns his face to the ocean and lets the salt sting his cheeks before adding, You ever seen something big? Like a whale?

An honest-to-god sailor…
 
The smile that curled the druid’s features was fiendish in nature. The chuckle that sounded from his chest dripped with warmth, though. The stranger then went on to say that he was from the mountain region to the north. This struck Knaven as being interesting; most of the wolves who were born to the earth stayed with the earth. He did not comment on this internal prejudice.
 
“Seems we’re cut from different worlds,” the earthy male remarked thoughtfully, drawing his gaze toward the cream-touched mountaineer with a curious glint in the dark colors. Had Knaven been something more of an open heart, he might have made a glib comment about how they could teach each other something. Instead, his ear swiveled at the inquiry that had been brought to light. The mountain man wished to know if he had seen anything large on the waters.
 
The smile that crossed the rogue’s features this time was much softer, much more intense.
 
Knaven looked to his temporary companion and nodded his crown in a solemn way.
 
“Seen whales and dolphins. Two sharks,” he rumbled. “Leopard seals, jellyfish, turtles…”

With his hair pulled back by the wind, his sharp chin in profile, he looks much older than he really is, blinking into the water. His cheek in profile, silhouetted, is pinched when he smiles. Miranda nods in hearty agreement. If he could read his mind, he would find endless amusement in his new moniker, the mountain man.

He didn't know what jellyfish were, and only had the vaguest idea of a turtle. Half-formed beasts rise out of the primordial soup in his head, zygotic, with the consistency of scrambled egg, cobbled together by nothing but imagination and memory. Like dreams, they disintegrate as soon as you get too close.

You talk like an old man, an old fisherman, he remarks, his grin toothsome and ribbing. What's your name? I'm Miranda. Hearing his own name, he's reminded of Holden, who had once been so close that HoldenandMiranda was a veritable word you could find in any dictionary, but now was so far that he seemed as trivial and foreign as the Kuiper belt hundreds of millions of miles into space.

Despite it all, he can't help but wonder how he's doing, if he's even alive.

Hmm, that was new.
 
Knaven had never had another wolf remark on his way of speaking in such a manner. He did not take offense to it, but he was rather surprised at his companion’s openness. The grin that swept the cream-flushed male’s features was reminiscent of Lionel’s. The druid could not help but to sneer in response to the statement.
 
“Well, I just might be… least mentally,” he retorted swiftly, sweeping his blood-touched gaze toward the other male with climbing interest. He liked the way he presented himself; he liked the way he spoke. It was rare to find someone who could keep up, so to speak. The creamy fellow falls into the standard request for a name, offering his own unique calling. The druid squinted with a crease in his brow and a devilish curling of his lips. Miranda didn’t seem a name you’d find every day. It reminded him of the names his mother referenced – wispy feminine names that sounded as though they belonged to fairies. He wondered if this was what they were like.
 
“I’m Knaven. Pleasure to meet ya,” he then offered with a small nod.

At his retort, Miranda can't help but laugh, a soft pfft pushed out between his teeth and lip.

Knaven belonged to that hallowed domain where objects starting with “kn” lived: knife, knight, knowledge — all serrated edge, that silent k really did something to a word — and Miranda looks at him in a new light. He loved names, but not so much his own. They always expected a girl, which in retrospect might’ve been an advantage. 

He tilts his head and sits down with one leg over the other, all in one fluid motion. His posture is like a therapist’s and his body leans against the ground, giving like the back on an ergonomic chair. Where I come from, it's called Alaska, he says. You know, Alaska means ‘what the sea is directed to?’ It sounds so awkward in English. Shame… Frostbite, snow blindness, nights that lasted days and days that lasted nights, all fill his head until it’s on the verge of leaking out of his ears and what wets his eyes aren’t tears but the snowmelt off of Brooks Range. 

Standing up, he brushes the dirt off of his knees. Hey, Knaven, he begins. I was wondering if you’d like to try and go surf fishing down there. He gestures to the shore, glittering with foam and blue sky. Some crab would be nice. The sand gives way under him as he half-walks, half-slides down the slope and into the sunlight and the back of his neck pricks with the beginning of sweat.

The wolf Miranda went on to explain where he was from – a place called Alaska. The cream-touched male then went on to explain that the name of it meant ‘what the sea is directed to’ which caused a curious reaction in the druid. His features fell slightly, and his expression became sterner. The tension that settled in his back could only be noted if Miranda had been standing right beside him – touching him – but Knaven did what he could to swallow his disdain for the other man’s home and the meaning behind it’s peculiar name.
 
The sea was bound by nothing, pointed toward nowhere; the sea was limitless and could be tamed by nothing.
 
The words of his father echoed in his mind, but Knaven did not speak them out loud, nor did he comment on the nostalgic whims of the other man. He simply let the words go, knowing that they had inspired a toxic feeling within him. It was in the blood of the Cairn wolves, after all. They belonged to the sea, body and soul. They understood the dangers of those waters and the beasts that lurked in the deepest darkest portions.
 
“Oh, I’ve got quite the knack for catchin’ crabs,” the druid remarked in a rugged but charming voice. Had the two of them been men, this type of comment might have inspired a childish giggle at the inappropriate subtext. Instead, Knaven cast a sidelong glance to the pale wolf beside him and motioned with his muzzle for Miranda to follow. “You have good taste if that’s what yer craving,” he then commented with a sly smirk that settled much too easily on his features.

The change in the sailor’s demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed but it is a subtle change buoyed only by Miranda’s own intuition — knowing that something had shifted but not quite sure of what. Intuition didn’t fail him often. But at the same time he’s content to pass it by as a little quirk — didn’t all conversations with strangers have this sort of phugoid motion? — and life continues onward.

He enjoys watching Knaven’s gestures which are long, fluid, comfortable, existing only in perfect arcs and semicircles. They exchange a similarly elliptical glance. I may have good taste, but my crab catching skills? Questionable.

The sea is, of course, much louder by the sand, the biggest hydropower plant in the world, and the noise of millions of kilowatt hours per year is nothing small. Not many crabs in the mountains, he says, cracking a grin that falls only millimeters short of shit-eating.

Under the shallow waters, the crabs are dark refractions that half-walk and half-drift across the shore. His shadow falls over them and they immediately hide themselves. Cheeky little things, he thinks. Insects of the sea. He digs through wet sand, and the world of the crab turns upside down when he grabs it, flailing weakly between his teeth.

“I s’pose I’ll be the judge of that, Miranda,” the druid said to him, voice like smoked honey.
 
The reminder that this creamy wolf had wandered down from the rocky slopes was not a deterrence for the earthy hound. He found the challenge to be something of a joy, knowing that it would surely result in some fun for the two of them.
 
Much to his surprise, once they were on the beach and searching for the little creatures, Miranda had quite a knack for digging them out of the sands. Within moments he had produced one in his teeth and was showing it off. Knaven looked to the specimen with a smirk. He drew his head back and nodded to his companion. It seemed like the crab would be a nice enough snack, even if it was on the shrimpy side. They wouldn’t be finding any of the large ones out there to begin with.
 
“That one might give you a pinch, best watch yerself,” he teased with a chuckle before scraping at the sands and pulling out his own. He ended its waving with a single crunch of his fangs.

We can fade here?

Those navy eyes, ball-bearing eyes, roll once in their sockets. Alright, mammy. And karma must've been pressing her ear to the door because the crab reached out and pinched him hard on the mouth as if on cue.

Aw, shit. His eyes water up. For such a little creature, they sure had some torque in that alien arm of theirs. Knaven swims in his gaze like looking through an old 19th-century cylinder glass window. He ends its life with a careful amount of jaw pressure to its head and with a crack it is gone. It drops soundless to the sand. I must be round four times your age and still greener than you. At killing crabs anyway.

They enjoy a small seaside meal. Miranda reflects on the distant past when he would lie on his stomach aside a riverbank on the month or so when water would run as a liquid and how he would carefully teeth the meat away from the dirt colored carapaces of crawfish. Dew all over his stomach and his palms.

The rogue did not hesitate to crack a smug expression at the sight of the other floundering a bit in his pain. It wasn’t enjoyment in the act of the pinch itself, but that Knaven had so easily predicted the movement by their prey. Those crabs were not to be trifled with, he knew. There had been more times than he could count when he had suffered a similar burst of pain and distortion. As a pup, the young druid had returned to his parents with three clipped on his tail, yowling like the it would be his final day on earth and never forgetting that he could be surprised by any creature – large or small.
 
The two finished their crab hunt and Knaven parted ways with Miranda with a cheery nod of his head and a wag of his tail. The creamy fellow faded from his sight and he set his course for the northeast stretch of beach that seemed to carry the length of the coastline with it. The druid thought about Lionel and Bijou and whether or not they would be close behind or if they had found themselves in trouble.