Sea Lion Shores Rotten tropics by the sea

The ghostly ashen male moved forward, and despite her former interest Sassafras felt her instincts prickle knowingly. She uttered a guttural little growl of uncertainty accompanied by a coltish snort of apprehension, firmly rooted in the idea that she wasn’t up for a fight. Instead, she danced away on sprightly paws that deftly connected with the grainy, slipping sands beneath her, spinning her hindquarters about her front when she was again some distance away. She lowered her head to gaze at him from afar — clearly curious, but knowing full well, now, he was not to be trifled with. He was in a league apart from her entirely.

Letting forth a deep breath that sounded like a huff, and standing there poised but inert, it was equally clear that she was not yet prepared to leave of her own volition. Her back would not be turned unless he chose to convey convincing indifference or unless he made to chase her away, although she was keen to continue to bounce away with flighty little steps. A baffling thought occurred to her after a passing moment — she did not immediately distrust him, and she could not discern why.

He was of the purest wilds, if nothing else. It was a thing she could understand.