Shimmering Sands the hawser rolls, the vessel’s whole and christ, it’s thin

rannveig listed like the sinking hill of a felled ship, pulled to the undertow by unseen and fathomless currents. his brother had noted rannveig’s drift, feigning then to stand on the cusp of the sea’s frothy tide and deny himself the pleasure of the water’s cool touch.

masochist.

rannveig was already to his ears in the brine, paddling with a mad man’s cheeky delight as the grey surf furled in stormy boughs over his body. he sunk into the depths, paddling reptilian and slow — all but his muzzle submerged in the rolling water. slowly the male turned to face his brother, an impish expression hanging in those crocodile eyes as he floated, immobile while every cant of his body told of the explosive tension about to erupt.