Stavanger Bay let me redefine god into something i can become

It was Szymon’s turn to mind Qilaq. He had become well accustomed to her cyclical routine of eating, playing, and sleeping — but the behavior she now exhibited was new to him. She was not made of the same stuff that composed the scrappy little witch doctor — her limbs did not spring with flighty exuberance or dance with gazelle-like grace — but she had never been quite this clumsy before. Every few feet, her gangy legs seemed to tangle and drop her heavily into the sand; he watched dumbly, his knowledge of medicine too rudimentary to sort out the Rubik’s Cube that, once solved, would lend some clue of her acute malady. The metallic tang of blood sprang to his nostrils as she tumbled to the earth this time, biting her tongue.

“Q-Q-Qilaq,” he intoned quietly, wondering whether she would hear him. Approaching her slowly, he nosed lightly at her shoulder as she rose unsteadily, but with great deliberation, to her feet. “Come with me,” he murmured, feeling uneasy about commanding her after Sharkbait had seemed so reluctant to accept his company. He took a step toward the freshwater source near the cliff formed by Donnelaith’s wooded territory, gesturing with a quirk of his scarred muzzle that she was meant to follow him. He only hoped that if he walked tight beside her, she would not fall again. His steps were slow and measured as he turned to regard her.