The Sentinels Too much sauce

Part of Larkspur expected Deirdre to immediately rise to her defense, to swear to guard her against her nemeses at the bay. She even somewhat expected the young witch to cast some sort of spell to ward them away. Instead, Deirdre spoke fondly of Skellige. The food in Spur's stomach curdled as her friend spoke. Her eyes flew wide, brushing briefly and disbelievingly over Deirdre's face before falling pointedly to her own paws. Her heart lurched. How could her friend call him a good man, then in the next breath mention that he had tossed both herself and her father into the sea... the latter of whom had never resurfaced?

Spur heard nothing of the poisoned wolf, as that was when she began to cry, this time in confusion and grief. Had Mordecai perished that day on the beach, tossed like trash into the sea alongside her only to sink where she had not? Soft little mewls of agony soon built into wrenching sobs. It was her fault if Mordecai had suffered such a fate. She had wandered into the bay's realm, had darted off like a frightened bird and earned the Leviathan's ire. She cried harder with each minute, collapsing to the floor in part because Deirdre coaxed her to settle herself but mostly under the weight of her own emotions.

She felt betrayed, by Skellige and even (much more devastatingly) by Deirdre herself. The man had posed as her father after slaying her true sire; how could the witch think him a good man? "He threw me into the water," she bawled to Deirdre, simultaneously upset by her and needing to vent to the girl who was her best friend. "He threw my daddy into the water. He's dead! He's dead, Deirdre!" This time, there was no magic as Spur seized on the floor, but nor was it a true malady. This was simply the paroxysms of grief and horror gripping her tightly and wringing her for all she was worth.