Stavanger Bay Spirit cold

Perhaps he sensed the precariousness of her position. When he laid himself out on the sand, Sharkbait breathed a tiny bit easier, though she did not relax. Her eyes squinted slightly as she studied him, reading his body language like a book. He appeared rather nonthreatening like this, though she didn't trust him. Her mind kept flicking back to that eerie night when Skellige and Amayo had demanded they bathe in blood, the touch of a strange and gored paw touching her. Sharkbait shuddered.

When he mentioned Amayo, her gaze flickered across his face, then dropped to a point somewhere in the sands between them. She listened, wondering again at his stutter. It intrigued her for reasons she couldn't name and bred more of that strange and unhappy feeling deep down in her core. She almost didn't process his words. He wanted to tell her more about the ritual, although Sharkbait had no desire to learn more. And then he wanted to know if she was hungry or thirsty, his formal phrasing nearly as thought-provoking as his stammering.

Again, she simply shook her head in reply. She didn't want to talk to him or to anyone, really. She just wanted to be left alone to the darkness and the weird sense of loss stirring in her breast. Sharkbait sucked in a breath and drew the cloak of anxiety tight around her spry shoulders, metaphorically speaking. She wondered if he would keep poking and prodding at her or if he would eventually give up and leave her on the moonlit beach.