Blackwater Islands birds and stars

Whip was, by most accounts, difficult to read. He kept his emptions close to the cuff, under guard, where he could shove them away to fester and twist into the warning signs of eventual mental illness. It wasn't healthy, but the boy got by. If Indie wanted to read him -- well, good luck to her, because Whip could hardly read himself. However, he did know that he wanted to belong. To do that, Whip knew he would have to serve. And serve well.

And serve he did.

The fish would suffice. He brought it over to where Indie lay, dropping it at her forepaws with little to no flourish. The dead fish flopped on to the sand with a soft thud. Whip then drew his gaze upward, from her paws to her face. "I stay because this is where I'm supposed to be," he answered. There were other factors that he had told Akantha, but she was the Matriarch. But more than that, she was like a mother to Whip. Indie however, was not.