Ankyra Sound the horseman

@Arrille

Kierkegaard pulled his frame from out of the grotto and stretched his tired limbs. The fur along his neck and shoulders was tugged by the breeze before it stood rigidly where it always had – like quills that danced along his back. The ash-coated brute peered out with squinted eyes at the rolling of the waves against the shoreline. He had intended to take to the borders and mark their boundaries for any passersby, but he thought that he ought to fish. Since his arrival back to the sound, Kierkegaard had developed a peculiar sort of anxiety near the waters and had imagined being sucked underneath them and swept away. He knew that he had to overcome, and so he padded to the edges of the water and allowed it to wash up to his foreleg. The cry of gulls overhead sang as a warning to him; do not enter or you may never reemerge.