She dreamed of saltwater and kelp. Brine, burning her nose and throat, the pull of cold waves that fought to drag her into their flow. Shimmering herring, coalescing into great schools and then scattering silver shards through the green-blue. Then: clouds of silt and ash. The water, once clear, clogged by noxious green and brown. The kelp withered. The sea warmed.

When she opened her eyes, it was to the inquisitive stare of a gull. On instinct, she snapped her jaws. Her teeth missed. A great cacophony of shrieks rose around her as white wings fluttered out of reach, and the sodden she-wolf dragged herself to her feet. She coughed, tasting salt on her tongue, but her lungs were clear. Her limbs felt as strong and healthy as ever.

This shore looked much like the one where she had traced her sister's scent, only far colder. White snow crested the tops of the cliffs. Steam rose from her mouth with each panting breath. What had happened? Where had the sea taken her?

Her sister's scent was not here. Yet there were other familiar ones: wolves she'd known in another life. A thread of connection. She held onto it, and forced her damp, shivering form to step away from the lapping waves towards the rocky cliffs. Slowly at first, then with greater confidence, she ascended a narrow trail. Occasionally a paw slipped on the damp stone, but it did not diminish the stormy determination in her hazel eyes.

He notices the chorus of ear-piercing gull keows off in the distance and his stride begins to tentatively slow until he's only making one or two steps at a time. Novak has come to spend most of his time agonizing water side, nibbling at offensive heaps of muck-carrion so his stomach aches less, and sleeping when his body couldn't bear him anymore. Aside from meeting that wolf-woman, this is the most activity he's seen in this area.

Initially he hesitates continuing forward, inclined to turn tail and retreat back to his sorry-soggy hole in the dirt.

It doesn't sound better than investigating.

Novak's muzzle wrinkles and he presses onward to the coast.

Above, seagulls squawk or downright scream, each outburst another fright that tucks his tail between his legs and hastens his pace. A particularly inconsiderate seagull swoops down to snap at him. He snaps back. The seagull tries again, winning, for this time his persistence sends Novak off into a run.

There's a benefit. Kind of.

At the cove, there's signs of another. Disturbed sand. The immense scent of wet not-dog. He turns in a tight, winding circle. Stops. "Hello?" Novak calls out. No one answers. "Okaaay." Another look leads to another assessment. Towering cliffs stare down at him. Pawsteps lead a path to the disconcerting open to a rocky trail, he's following after before he considers it much. He should've.

He slips immediately.

Recovers faster.

Novak shakes his fur out, "Good god this is a death trap," and decides then and there, if he finds someone at the end of the trail, he'd tell them that they were gravely absurd. Then he would leave from whence he came to prove a point just as any self-respecting dog would.