Stavanger Bay the mumbling of citadels

There had been tales told to her, and to her brothers and her sisters, of the many beasts of the land; that the sea was only half the world, and there were bounties to be reaped from upon the ice sheets and beaches. In all her many years Granddaughter had seen things that strengthened these facts, but never had she seen a tiny thing such as the golden child upon which her attention had locked. She had seen wolves, at least in passing, and yet did not think that they sprang up as her own kin did, small, weak, defenseless, although it made all the sense in the world.

They watched one another. The child appeared to speak, or to make some kind of sound, but the creature did not know the word. To be likened to a shark was either a great insult or a boon — they were warriors, but dim of mind, and ravenous. Granddaughter was like them, yes, but also not. She had the knowledge of the ancestors to raise her up, unlike the tireless shark, who roamed the sea merely to fill its belly and nothing more.

She would ignore the fact that her empty stomach was what urged her to watch the child now, but for the time being Granddaughter was indeed a shark. And seeing the fear pass over the small dog-seal, the trembling of its body, the wide eyes, made the creature grin beneath the water.

Perhaps she could sooth this child? Bring them close, for the Mother Sea loved all the life upon the world, not just her beloved children of the depths. But the child had retreated. That, and the fact the creature could not woo a child who could not understand the words of old, meant that any desire she had to sweep the babe away was lost.

She deviated from her course, and with a beat of her tail, drifted deep and away from the coast, back towards the wise ones.