It is cold when Isengrim pulls himself the surf and up onto the sandy coast of Tinuvel. His damp skin shivers beneath the autumn chill despite his winter coat beginning to fill out along his speckled sides. His ears, curled slightly, find a home on the wet curve of his neck, nestling down against the growing mane pasted along the sides of his neck. His eyes, so pale they were almost white, blink a few times, focusing hazily on a point in the distance. Despite the shivering of his skin and the sharp wind, Isengrim makes no move to shake the ocean from his pelt.

He doesn't know why he's here. He has no idea why he'd leaped into the water and swam to the place of his birth. To the place where he'd begun. Perhaps it was the tug of his soul back to what it considered his home. Or maybe it was a link to his father. Whatever it was didn't matter. He was already here, fretting about the why wouldn't change a thing.

His tail snaps against his flank, spraying water in an arc as he does. Isengrim's gaze shifts and his ears flick forward, fuzzy and dark. It seemed quieter in the Bay now. He doesn't know if it's true or if it seemed livelier when he was younger. It had seemed so large when he'd been younger. He walks along the edge of the bay that gave the territory it's name, occasionally looking down to catch his ghost-eyed reflection in the water.

The expression on his face is not kind, though it lacks anger as well. It's judgmental, harsh lines and a harsher scowl. The stark-contrast of his eyes against his fur doesn't help. He stops, craning his neck for a better look at his reflection. With a snort he kicks a pebble into the water, distorting his reflection. He doesn't stick around long enough to see who he looks like. He huffs, turning and walking deeper into the territory. He doesn't announce his arrival or wait at the front door like a guest. Father would find him soon enough, he figured.