Sequoia Coast Memory comes when memory's old

It was late - the dark sky hidden behind the masses of clouds, wind howling and waves of the raging ocean clashing against the shore. There wasn't a living soul at the coast, apart from a lone, dark figure of a wolf, standing motionless with it's gaze focused at the restless waters. Eyes - one in a color of burning coals, the other black were fixed on something the creature alone could see and her mischievous expression that changed now and then from moments of wonder and satisfaction to flashes of deep hatred and eagerness to hurt gave an impression that she was having a conversation with someone.

"I won't fail you," she whispered, looking the great snake in the eyes. It's face that was lifted slightly above the water twisted into a sneer, fangs flashing and poison dripping from it's tips. A warning, a friendly gesture - who knew. Snakes were not known for showing emotions well and Hedda didn't believe that this had any at all, therefore she frowned: "No, need to show off." It let out a low hiss and disappeared underwater. She closed her eyes and memorized everything it had told her. There was a plan, a quest to accomplish. Then she would die to join the warriors of her kind. Not the fools that feasted and fought in Valhalla. No, Hedda had a different afterlife meant for her.

When she was sure of her path and the next move in the game that had begun, she left the place, breaking out in a steady and determined trot along the coastline.

It had been some time since Týrr had came to the Sequoia Coast, staying clear of it not out of fear – he did not fear Ragnar or his play pretend Vikings – but because the temptation to seek out the platinum Jarl was strong. It rose like an itch beneath his skin, hot and pestering. An itch that for several reasons he could not scratch. Recovering from his fight against the other coast wolves meant that he was in no shape to have a death match with a male who was, admittedly, more experienced then the young Rekkr. Where Týrr had youth, Ragnar had wisdom. He had been in so many more battles than the Rekkr, had won so many more battles. To jump into it simply because he thought the odds were in his favor was indefinitely stupid. The Rekkr was smarter than his indulgent youth – he was not invincible. He could bleed, he could die, and if he were to let arrogance to have control then he would find himself with death at Ragnar's jaws instead of the other way around. Týrr had a plan, and though he had no way of knowing if it was actually working or not he had to get by with the assumption that Ragnar would fall for the trick, so blindly and zealously devout as he was. 


Imitating Odin was not something the Rekkr would have ever dared to consider doing before Manauia and Thitle had turned his world upside down – before Tezcacoatl had begun to merge until Amazon and Viking were not individual but singular. What they were creating, Týrr did not know; but Tezcacoatl had managed to dispel all belief the Rekkr had once had in the Norse Gods. If Odin was real, he would have dealt with Týrr and his clever deception by imitation after the first time the Rekkr had done it to Spectra. 

Týrr's study of the Bay in the far off distance was subtle, and as it was he had no intentions of letting on that he was there, that he was watching. As it stood he had much more important things to focus his attentions on as his priorities and Ragnar was not one of them. For now, his attention remained on recruiting and attempting to put into action his plans to claim Frostfire Ridge. A tribute and something new, all at once. Not unlike the merge of Tezcacoatl and Týrr. There were many times when he desired to go by Tezcacoatl once more, to embrace that which he was born as; yet resisted because he barely remembered who he'd been before the amnesia. It felt disrespectful to the Amazon culture to once back take the Nahuatl name he'd been given upon his birth, to take the crown and burden of being a Coatl. Some days, though, he did not wish to be Týrr either. It was not a name that made him belong to Ragnar – he had shed that many months ago – but the association was there, nevertheless. He was both ...and he was neither. 


Most days his identity crises were manageable, and on the days that they weren't he pushed them to the side, choosing to ignore them in favor of focusing his energy vigorously upon something else. Anything else.

Chocolate ears cupped forth atop his skull at the soft hiss of a voice – the words discernible in the distance between them, but the lilting rise and fall of vocals was enough to capture the Rekkr's attention. Black, leathery nose lifted to sniff at the air though he was upwind of whomever it'd been. Hackles bristled along his spine in caution, wondering if he'd been fortunate (or perhaps unfortunate) to run into another Bay wolf, though quickly he settled upon an Odin name to use in that case. Anything to get into and under Ragnar's skin. Týrr's approach was cautious as he neared her – a shadow in the darkening sky, her attention appeared to be focused elsewhere. There was something about her that tugged at his memory, painting her as familiar though for the moment the Rekkr brushed it off; slight raise of panic borne of the fear that she was a memory from Tezcacoatl. From those, lest they came to him on their own, he tried to stray away from not wanting to suffer the searing headaches that prying gave him. 

He stopped a few feet away from her and broke his silence asking with a soft snicker, “Who is it that you speak too?” Deciding to play the part of Odin, though she did not smell of the Bay. Still, he did not think extra caution – just in case – was unwarranted. After all, he was closer to Stavanger Bay than he'd been in a few months and because of that he was on edge.

Usually Hedda was very much aware of every single thing that happened around her. Her senses were heightened both as a gift from her master and learning from experience. Even though she had played her role as a scary, but harmless loner successfully many times before, she had always had to keep one eye open to a possibility of an attack. Because very often people, who feared you, left all the bravery of facing an enemy according to the rules and attacked you, while you were not looking. Or so they thought. Because Hedda... Hedda was always looking. She saw the world in ways many people thought of being impossible.

Therefore it came as a bit of a surprise to find out that she had had someone observe her, while she had been talking to the master. It was unsettling a little, but she accepted this as yet another challenge, which was aided at improving herself. She changed her path and began to approach the bystander in a careful and confident manner, feeling just as much curiousity about him than he felt about her. Hedda stopped, when she could see the wolf's face better. She recognized it and knew imediately that she had seen in it before, yet there had been so many faces since that last time, that she could not put a name, a family or a pack to it right away.

"Who is that, who ask this question?" she asked in return. She rarely gave an answer, if it was an information she didn't want to share. Or - if the person had been the first to ask.