Stavanger Bay you don't own me

Leaving behind the raucous barking of sea lions, a sound that Coelacanth found inexplicably and infinitely soothing, the atramentous Groenendael cross meandered south. Dainty, catlike paws sank into the coarse sand to be periodically engulfed by the tiny, lapping waves at the shoreline; she allowed the tip of her feathered tail to trail aimlessly behind her like a swirl of ink from an unseen quill. Tufted ears strained forward at the distant sound of two voices lifted in jovial song — like those hapless sailors, she was drawn toward the sound in an undeniable way. Cracked and excavated shells littered the sandy shore alongside fragments of fish bones; the famine had driven even inland wolves to eating as the coastal wolves did, scavenging what carcasses they could and fishing from the sea. Now and again, Coelacanth dipped her streamlined muzzle to nose at the debris, looking for treasure that might please @Amoxtli or stray morsels of edible material — but her search came up short as she caught sight of Stitch and Maude, as dissimilar as Coelacanth’s father and uncle were alike.

Cautiously, unsure of her welcome due to the unmistakable scent of fresh blood, Coelacanth approached — leaving plenty of breathing room in case the party was a private one. The ghostly white female — lissome and long-limbed, with captivating cerulean eyes — seemed to be guarding a kill, and although the mood seemed generally cordial, there was an underlying thread of tension that bound the pair together. Coelacanth couldn’t vouch for the longevity of that genial veneer. In any case, it seemed that the singing had stopped, much to the inky halfbreed’s great disappointment. Casting her attention to the male, a curiously ragged creature with sepia-toned, unkempt fur and a slim, shapely frame, Coelacanth noted the intensity of Maude’s smouldering gold eyes and paused — averting her eyes automatically despite the neutrality of the territory. She hadn’t explored far enough to the northeast region of the Sequoia Coast to recognize his pack scent, but being smaller than most of the wolves she met had heightened in Coelacanth her innate inclination to be polite and self-effacing.

Tufted ears skimmed back against Coelacanth’s narrow skull as her feathered tail hung loose and relaxed between her slim hocks, its damp sumi-e brush tip wavering with unobtrusive friendliness. Seablue eyes half-closed as a shy smile touched the corners of her slender muzzle,and a friendly whuff slipped airily from her lips.

“They call me Stitch,” the lovely she-wolf was saying presently to her dusky counterpart, “what do they call you?”