Stavanger Bay let me redefine god into something i can become

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Szymon is relieved when the sand battle comes to an anticlimactic end. Playing has a tendency to make him uneasy, even when it is warranted and invited. “Come with Appeh, Qilaq,” he entreats her, angling his muzzle in an attempt to smooth the bridge of his scarred muzzle against her cheek. He begins to move toward the freshwater source at a slightly quicker pace, loping a pace or two forward and then pausing to wait for the grey-eyed girl to catch up. He ought to feel a sense of urgency, but interacting with the girl is a lesson in itself and he finds himself as eager to understand her as he is to teach her. He is determined in a feverish, insistent way that she will not know the torment that comprised his own childhood. When he is close enough to the waterfall, he bends his head to drink — and to clear the sand from his own mouth. “Wash your face,” he suggests, “like this.” He bends his head again, dipping his muzzle below surface and giving his narrow skull a brief shake that looses the sand from his scarred lips and leathery nares.

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