Stavanger Bay Flower In The Wind

Vague about wounds and things.

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The black-banded angler, battered and weary after his hunting mission through the taiga region, had gone for a long swim in the roiling Sea upon his return. Splashing ashore, he shook the water from his fur — he was accustomed to Her chill, and She would remain warm for far longer than the rivers and their thinner tributaries would. Frost had already begun to gather on the river rocks, especially those at higher altitudes, glossed over with rime from the mountain snowmelt. Szymon was exhilarated as he blew water from his nose and mouth in a heavy chuff, a fine spray of saline fanning out before him. It had been his intention to bring the sheepdog back with him — Doe, he knew, would be even more delighted and relieved to see the tuft-eared creature than Szymon himself — but in her doggish way, the selkie’s daughter had apologized and made promises to return as soon as she was able.

Blinking the saltwater from his golden eyes, the new father’s focus was immediately drawn to the tiny cream and russet creature who stood at the ring of black rocks as if awaiting permission to enter. Her resemblance to his own children piqued his curiosity — surely he hadn’t been gone that long — and he approached her at a measured walk. Inexplicably, his stutter was absent as he spoke gently to the child; perhaps it was because of her resemblance to Julep and Whiskey. He followed the steady line of her crystal blue eyes to the Sea and, breathing deeply of her scent, realized that she was one of Deirdre’s wards. “You are a child of Donnelaith,” he remarked, his deep bass timbre tinged with a questioning note. “These borders are open to you. This bay is also your home.” Still, what was she doing here? If she wanted to swim, Szymon would not deny her the judgment of the Sea — she was walking, and therefore she was old enough to endure the Drop.

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