Stavanger Bay fury and reason

The voice almost did not register as it was offered to Kierkegaard. His body shuddered once more and he could feel himself growing weak; the gentle lap of the waves did little more than to make him feel ill. The touch of the fish against his limbs was as insulting as it was frustrating. When blackness seemed to fold on his vision once more, the brute moved another step backwards and breathed a deep sigh. It was a desperate hope that if he were to steady his breathing, it would steady his ragged figure. The stranger in the shallows had shown a sort of wary concern for the swaying beast, but he was not quite capable of expressing his inability to move, let alone speak.
 
Lifting his head, the ghost peered into the eyes of the other wolf with an expression that may have seemed… almost pitiful. The gold of his gaze was softened by the gloss that covered them. Kierkegaard parted his mouth to speak to his other man, to beckon him closer, to teach him to fish; the only thing that was emitted from his lips was a quiet whine of misery. Without warning, the darkness came for him, and the haggard man felt his limbs give way. As his body struck against the shallow water, the fish that had fluttered nearby darted away in surprise.
 
His breathing was shallow and pained, and his figure was suffering. Still, he wished to call to the grey-cloaked man in the water. Show me to fish… help me. But he was becoming lost to the shadows that had stolen his vision and knocked him to the earth.