Stavanger Bay Running Towards a Place

wintersbane was not an idle man by any stretch of the imagination; but the puzzle pieces were starting to fall into place. he was upon the borders; mapping, marking those yet to be lain upon the loamy soil for most of the morning and much of the day. his paws thrummed with a new ache, a different ache than the one settled in them following his departure from rusalka. this ache is one that brings with it a sense of purpose and fulfillment.

unable to spare the time to track the herds he knows are lurking in the depths of the sentinels he heads to the beach for an easier catch — if one could call the flocks of seagulls easier; certainly they were easier for a single wolf.

he doesn’t make it to the area of the beach where the avians tend to flock in droves. instead, he is called in a different direction, paws traversing the loamy sand where the tide spit out all manner of flotsam and jetsam; broken shells and tangles of seaweed, beached fish and globs of jellyfish that would remind wintersbane of snot if he knew what that was.

the silhouette of the stranger draws his polar gaze and hale tundrian lets out a chuff of greeting, approach rigid but not domineering.