Stavanger Bay fury and reason

The dust-footed stranger made an effort to demonstrate that he did not intend harm. Kierkegaard – the ever silent statue – returned the bobbing of his skull in hopes that this would be enough to bide him the temporary companionship of the other wolf. With their wordless gestures, the stranger began to turn in the direction of where the ashen ghost stood. The breeze ruffled the long hairs along his neck and spite, and the rangy creature shivered against it, breathing heavily through his nose. The Sairensu male had been met and challenged with many things in his life, but he had never felt so tired in all his travels. The hunger that gnawed at his gut was – at best – unbearable for the specter.
 
Fiery eyes followed the movements of the Moonspear wolf with a ragged expression on his face. He hardly had the strength in him to fight the other male, should he choose to attack. Instead, Kierkegaard simply remained rooted to the sands and the water, swaying with the gentle bumps against his chest and legs. It would have been polite to make a remark to the stranger, but the brute had never found himself capable of good manners.
 
The fish did not seem to be bothered by his presence in the water any longer; they had braved the sea between even his long legs. Once or twice, he could feel one of their bodies brush against his ankle. He shuddered against it, frowning downward at the darting silver bodies. The muscles in his shoulders quivered and the ghost staggered backwards, darkness touching at the edges of his eyes. Somehow, he managed to hold his ground. The approaching stranger was the last thought in his mind.