Blackwater Islands Oh Comely

Whip turned his gaze from the shore to the sea. The grey, overcast sky and still water of the channel fused together in an endless horizion. The air was still and brisk. The only sound Whip could hear was the gentle lapping of the water against the driftwood dappled coast. Strangly, Whip noticed that even the gulls were quiet today. He turned away and continued on to scavenge what he could. He pushed forward in ignorance of the proximity of his matriarch and the bloodied scent of her healing wounds.

He stopped at a tide pool where the water had been trapped by a wayward piece of driftwood. The water was murky brown and smelled sharply of brine. He had learned long ago, when he had first been brought to the coast by the sirens he traveled with, that the water tasted foul -- and that no matter how much one drank, one would only became more thirsty.

A single exploratory paw was dipped into the frigid water and Whip felt the soft sand beneath. He dug around for a moment, but once again, he found nothing of usefulness. When his gaze was drawn from the pool and leveled with the horizon, he could then see the matriarch; staring, watching.

He averted his gaze and became stone where he stood. He tucked his tail between his legs. These women, he feared them -- and for good reason.