Stavanger Bay her early leaf's a flower

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Szymon watched in disbelief as the woman who carried his children flung herself headlong into the depths to swim to shore alongside their daughter, and although his scarred lips curled first in a kneejerk wave of fury — how dare she interfere? — he could not fault her for her ardor. His long, tattered ears fanned out to the sides of his narrow skull like the wings of a soaring gull, lending him an expressly displeased air, but he was marginally mollified when he noted that Doe was not interfering. Still, this was not the way things were done — he would have to impress this upon the witch doctor before the Drop fell to their own young. On that note, Szymon was unsure as to whether leaping from that great height would harm the young still growing inside her — above all things, he was peeved that she should so risk herself — but reasoned that if the babes survived this impromptu Drop they would almost certainly survive the real thing.

Still, he was a Cairn — and by default, kind of an asshole — and his expression grew stony, settling into a craggy collection of sharply drawn lines as he awaited their return to shore. They were near enough now that he was assured of their safety, but the triumphant excitement had gone out of him, leaving him cold. He did not allow his stiffened musculature to melt into relief or complacency. Doe had taken a great gamble by offering herself again to the Sea. Perhaps this time, the great goddess would not give her back to him. The fear that that thought engendered drew him like a powerful magnetic force, his paws carrying him forward before he forcibly stilled himself. Throwing back his head, he backed up to free his toes of Her touch and howled again for them — his low, resonant timbre carrying an added command: come back to me.

Qilaq was first to splash to shore, her gangly limbs and lean body splaying out as saltwater and spittle streamed from her muzzle and nostrils. “My Qilaq,” crooned the patriarch, leaning down gingerly as his muzzle parted. His aim was to grip the girl’s scruff and gently tug her some inches from the water so that she did not aspirate on the blood of the goddess who had given her back to him. He was unperturbed about her weakened state; it was natural that cubs needed time to recover after successfully completing the trial. He felt not sympathy but triumph — not sorrow but fierce, possessive joy. That is, until he turned his attention back to the woman who carried his children. Stepping away from the little sea urchin, his fangs flashing as he thrust his ears forward upon his skull, Szymon gave the one true love of his life his nastiest glare. “How dare you,” he hissed, as serpentine as the sea king himself. His guttural bass timbre scraped the bottom of its register with a virulent rattle.

How dare she risk herself?

[/td][/tr][/table]