Stavanger Bay I am not the slave to history but rather the slave to ambition.

With hope that he would find something of value to bring back to Deirdre, to make her smile and to return her beloved friends to her, Renoir had ventured clear of his new home. He tracked down to the beach and inspected every little thing he found there, though there were more bug carcasses here than anywhere inland; what plants he found were dead and salt-crusted, likely things living deep within the sea and nothing of use for the pale girl. He gave a sigh as his latest discovery of green turned out to be nothing more than soggy weeds, and canted his head towards the sparse hillside.

That was when he spotted her — his sister, maybe, or the little Deirdre, he was not sure — and the surprise of seeing the pale woman drew him out from across the sand. As he approached he gave a light-hearted call, and in coming close his pace lagged until he was standing before her gleefully. The wag of his tail slowed when he realized it was a stranger, and not the fine-boned child, nor the sister he had left so far behind.

Hello, he murmured peaceably, and cast a cheerful smile her way.