The dried saltwater cracked in the cold air. The beast stirred, fighting against the ocean. Its body rose steadily and slowly, and Mazikeen could not tell whether the motion was calculated or bedraggled with heavy soreness. Mazikeen continued to stare, unwilling to address her own invasiveness, and even more unwilling to blink as she watched a once-dead body begin to stir to life.

And then, like some accursed Jack-in-the-box, a bright gold face appeared against a Stygian backdrop. A face. His face. It was not a cryptid; it was a wolf. Well, if it was a cryptid (or a demon, or a dejected Norse god, or a monster), it had been placed very unfortunately into a very mortal body.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Mazikeen finally allowed herself the grace to blink, ears flicking slightly to the side as the snarl of his voice seared through the crisp air. There was an intensity to it, a heat that seemed to rise from his very core. A fire brewed within him, and perhaps it was that very fire that had kept him alive.

Watching you, she told him, voice empty as she took a small step backward. The male pulled himself upward, unsteady on his paws, and Mazikeen was then able to see all of the intricate markings of his coat. But the witch-girl did not dare touch while the iron steamed. Not many wash up on this shore— she began, her voice as hypnotic as the rhythmic strumming of the waves, —not alive, anyway.

Her tufted ears dared to perk up, a subtle display of her interest.