Stavanger Bay give in to me

Szymon basked in Doe’s praise and admiration, allowing the pride he felt to billow his chest and elevate the customarily hunched and furtive cant of his lean, spare frame; he stood tall, king of the moment, but royalty was not his calling and after a beat, he stretched out like an inky-ribbed sphinx in the sand. Rumbling his low, humming purr at his Doe’s nearness, he grinned up at the shale-and-sand Witch Doctor with a rueful nod at her query. He snorted, eloquent derision — he had decided after his journey that he did not particularly like gyrfalcons. The scratches on his face were already well scabbed over, and although the ones on his right foreleg would take a little more time to reach that phase of healing, the pain was so inconsequential he forgot they existed most of the time. Invitingly, he dipped his nose and flipped the snapper and sculpin toward her, licking his lips as he urged her with an undulating whine to take her pick. He wondered whether she could use any part of the spurdog — perhaps the teeth were useful for ceremonies; he wasn’t sure — and made up his mind to ask later.

As the ceremony drew near, Szymon found himself worrying more and more about the little wolf; he knew that communing with the Sea was a tasking process, and her tasks thus far had proven arduous on their own. Though he was dedicated to helping her as much as he could, he couldn’t help the covetous fear that the Sea would try to steal Doe back somehow, and perhaps it was this unspoken fear that made him unable to wait for her to start eating before he rose from the sand and resumed a position nearer to her, his forequarters square and sphinx-like but his hindquarters sprawled casually to the side, providing a half-moon loveseat comprised of Szymon himself should she desire to lay beside him — and his eyes, golden and beseeching and steady on the face he had grown to love so quickly and completely, said that he hoped she would.