Stavanger Bay at tara in this fateful hour

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When the little Witch Doctor flopped down on her side in the sand, her flank rising and falling with a reassuringly steady rhythm, Szymon felt an odd sense of relief. Play was, for him, a quite stressful undertaking. Although he would grow accustomed to it in time, he found it put his nerves on pins and needles as he tried to strike a delicate balance between chasing Doe and trying his damnedest not to touch her. The invitation in her golden eyes bade a low rumble to groan good-naturedly from his jaws as he sank to the sand beside her, inching closer and closer with wary glances at her prone form to be sure he was indeed welcome. He circled her smaller body with his, not touching her, but hovering close enough that if danger arose he would be able to meet it with fangs blazing. He would let no one disturb her rest — and he kept one eye on her and one eye on the horizon as she slipped deeper and deeper into slumber.

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