This is an ocean, much like any other ocean. Salty. Wavy. Big. Blue. Full of monsters.

Whatever he was expecting, this wasn't it.

He lets out an undignified noise that is not at all a squawk as he splashes into the water.

He's not much of a swimmer, but fortunately this can be remedied in several ways. He elects to conjure a small fogbank and climb atop it (cloudwalking: a feature of his species that he's quite fond of), then launch back into the air. At least, that's the plan. 

Not much of a swimmer? So, hypothetically, he wouldn't notice anything in the water beneath him if something large far below noticed him and began to approach?

That depends on whether it takes more than, say, six seconds to reach him on the surface. Any slower than that and he'll be in the air, with much better situational awareness. (Another silver dragon perk: seeing through fog.) 

It takes a little more than six seconds for the bulk of it to get that close.

But then, very, very fast, a black tendril extends itself out of the water to wrap around his hind ankle.

That gets his attention. Several things happen in rapid succession. 

Ipaxalon starts to radiate cold, his immediate vicinity chilling to well below freezing. It's not enough to immediately hinder a large or powerful creature, but it's cold enough to kill an unprotected human in under a minute. 

His head whips around and he breathes. Everything in the tendril's general direction is blasted with enough supernatural cold to snap-freeze a rhinocerous into a brittle statue, out to about sixty feet. 

If there's anything still moving after that, his front claws make a rapid arcane gesture, he barks out a word, and his movements quicken. 

(If any of his foes were subject to mind-affecting fear effects, they may also notice Ipaxalon is suddenly very scary.) 

His foe is not subject to mind-affecting fear effects but is subject to cold. Much of the blackness breaks off, dead.

That which was far enough below the water to be out of range surges up, though, torpedo-shaped and then winged afterwards as it swims around its discarded frozen parts and shapeshifts into something that can breach and fly.

What. What kind of creature is that. He's never seen or heard of its like before. Is it a Netherling? It doesn't match the description of any of the invaders he knows, but they are new to the world and famously diverse. Is this their world? That's a horrifying thought. But aren't most of them land-based?

Not the time. He's not sure why this thing picked a fight, but he intends to win. He dives, tearing into the creature with several rapid bites, each one powerful enough to crush a horse. His claws and wings rip into its body, somewhat less destructive but aimed with precision. His tail lashes out at its center of mass.

It tastes really bad. The substance of it parts easily enough between his sharp bits, but while he's clearly doing some damage to it that way - flecks of black shear off into the air and don't reintegrate, including the bit that tries to burrow down his throat - it doesn't seem too fazed. It reforms, woundless, wherever he isn't actively harrying it.

He wants his tail to be in its center mass? That suits it fine. It shlorps around said tail with a grip like high water pressure.

...this is not a normal creature. Some kind of Elder Thing? What is going on. 

His attacks don't seem to be doing much, but neither does the creature seem able to penetrate his armor. His scales don't protect against constriction, though. 

In retrospect, engaging an unknown creature in melee on its home turf without adequate preparations was a mistake. He could attempt a spell, but it seems likely this monster can make him regret that in the middle of a grapple. Instead he lets loose another blast of supernatural cold along the length of his own body, towards the beast and his entrapped tail. Then he attempts to wrench his tail free and take flight. His leverage isn't great, but if he can freeze the part of the beast that's holding him and push off that...

Once it's frozen it shatters away conveniently from his tail. There's some of it left still moving, and it forms fresh wings and gives chase.

Between the innate flying speed and the haste, Ipaxalon can get nearly three hundred feet away in six seconds while still going slow enough to cast. 

He glances upwards. It is generally considered inadvisable to attempt a teleport spell to a place you haven't studied closely. But if you can literally see where you're about to go, and don't particularly care if you're a few hundred feet off target, the standard concerns do not apply. One spell later, he is several thousand feet above the water. 

Rule number one of fighting a dragon (or any spellcaster, really): do not give them time to cast buff spells. 

If the creature that attacked him is still inclined to pursue at this range, Ipaxalon will likely have time to cast several. And recharge his breath attack.

(He could continue fleeing, but he's disinclined to put his back to this thing while still unaware of its full capabilities, and very disinclined to be herded by it.) 

The creature loses track of him when he teleports. It reforms into a slim lozenge shape and dives back under the water, disappearing into the darkness.

Anticlimactic, but that's fine with him. A cure serious wounds takes care of his slightly crushed tail while he takes stock. 

Sky, water, single sun. The air smells crisp and clear, though there's something about it he can't quite place. It seems like he's still on the Prime Material. His best guess is that he's been somehow moved to an unfamiliar part of the planet. Given the climate, it's probably well out of teleport range of Jotenaugr. But if he can figure out where on the planet he is, he should be able to make his way back eventually. Or, if the Netherlings are invading here as well, he can lend his aid to whomever needs it.

...there's no way it's that simple. The Wish didn't outright fail; it must have done something that had a chance of turning him into a great wyrm. He's not a great wyrm yet, so the other head has yet to turn.*

If this isn't the Prime Material, if he's somewhere else entirely, then getting back to the war will be a bit more complicated. 

Step one: Find land, or someone he can talk to. He picks a direction and puts on speed. (In local terms, he's doing about fifty knots.) 

*Northlands colloquialism akin to "the other shoe has yet to drop," with a more bitter flavor. Originated during the Burying of Linnorms, a nasty war against cursed, two-headed monsters that look an awful lot like dragons from afar.

He is quite in the middle of the ocean and it's big.

But flying for a while and looking around will catch him a view of some sails, over there.

Sails! Sails mean people, unless he's even more lost than he thought. Either way, it seems more promising than the grabby tendril monster.

Ipaxalon slows and begins to glide down towards the sails, keeping his auras of scary and fuckoffcold tucked away. As he closes, he'll gradually curve down on a trajectory that brings him beside rather than right on top of the ship(s). He doesn't want to alarm the sailors, and he is a thirty-foot-long dragon.

The sailors observe his existence and don't seem... alarmed literally at all? They seem kind of pleased to see him. Some of them wave but none of them try to say anything.

Oh good, no harpoons.

He glides a bit closer, casts tongues. "I greet you," he says in fluent whatevertheyspeak. "I am Ipaxalon of the Northlands, recently restored to life. I believe I've been misplaced by magic, and seek to reorient myself. May I know from whence you come, and whither you are bound?" 

Hmm. As he suspected, the language seems completely novel. 

"Whoa! She can talk!" exclaims a crewman. "I didn't think they could talk!"

It doesn't look like anybody thought "they" could talk. They all agree on "she", though.

???

Have they...only...met...female...dragons? Who...couldn't talk? Or never bothered talking to mortals? But also didn't try to eat them, like chromatics or primals might?

"You have perhaps mistaken me for something I am not. I am a male dragon," oh they do have a word for dragons, weird connotations though, "and we can, as a rule, all talk."

They contemplate this statement, then somebody says, "I guess there's no reason a magical girl couldn't?", very tentatively, and another says, "I hear the pegasus in Ireland sometimes speaks..."

He flaps once to maintain a gentle glide to their starboard. 'Magical girl' maps more or less literally to 'female sorcerer', also with some weird connotations he's too distracted to probe. Something about beauty? That's fairly normal for sorcerers, though.

The (almost certainly human) sailors think he's some sort of...shapeshifted sorcerer? Perhaps from a prominent matrilineal family? Possibly not dragonblooded, if they also take pegasus form. It wouldn't be the strangest bloodline, not by a long shot. 

"I am magical, but not a girl..."

'Ireland' is a place, but not one he recognizes. 

"...I don't suppose you have a map aboard that I might peruse?"

"Can you, uh, turn back into a magical girl for a bit? I don't think we're meant to bring it out on deck."

They're really hung up on this girl thing, aren't they. "I can assume humanoid form for a time, yes." He loops around to angle more directly towards the deck in a spot where his wings won't hit the rigging, and in one smooth motion lands and —

— is now a barefoot, shirtless, silver-haired human wearing grey woolen pants. 

(Getting clothes to cooperate with an alternate form is a bit of a trick, but many dragons who regularly interact with humanoids find it worth their time to master. Ipaxalon is one such, but he's been too busy since his revival to bother with more than the bare minimum. It's not like he needs to dress for the cold. His form is strikingly handsome, though.)