Stavanger Bay with the salt on our skin

Sharkbait couldn't say whether she felt like herself again but she was feeling better, physically at least. While resting and recuperating, guarded by Skellige and attended by Doe, no sudden epiphany befell the youngster. Everything still felt muddled. The only thing that had become sharper and clearer over the days was her anxiety. Everything made her jump. It wasn't stark fear, just a constant, chronic sense of nervousness deep in her bones. It felt standard and unsettling all at once. With little else to identify herself, Sharkbait wore it like a shabby but familiar old coat.

Her apprehension was no better or worse than usual on this particular eve. The pup's guileless blue eyes followed the Leviathan's shadow as he departed in the direction of the beach. She stayed put, at least until voices cried out some time later. Swallowing nervously, Sharkbait climbed to her feet and, after a few false starts, loped out onto the open sands. She glanced at the white, foamy crests glowing in the gathering gloom to steady herself, then pinpointed the source of the howling and began to slink in that direction. The closer she came, the slower she walked, until her unease slowed her to a stop. She sank down and watched from a distance, trepidation written all over her face at the idea of mingling with a group of strangers.

Her ingrained obedience warred with her equally deep-seated unease, especially when other faces began to bob in the dark. With a ragged, gasping breath, Sharkbait suddenly scrambled forward, scuttling into Skellige's shadow like some sort of crab. She pressed herself close to his back, still very wary but comforted by her daddy's looming presence.