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

the stormcloud male drifted, feeling the ebb of the current swirl under his belly, holding his barrel up. the whitecaps frothed, rolling over his thin back as he studied his brother. rannveig had watched ford many times, thinking - and whatever rolled on in that weird brain of ford's was sometimes a game of great amusement to rannveig.

sometimes he'd imagine his brother's thoughts: oh, there's that look - he's thinking of that time velen tea-bagged his face.. or that time dad yelled at him but not me -- sometimes, rannveig thought of sillier things, like he's thinking of nutting right now, or simply not thinking at all.

the game was only as fun as those that participated in it, and after a while rannveig grew bored of devising theatrical reenactments of ford's secret heart.

it seemed he had ford's full attention now; rannveig grinned a stupid grin. no one ever suspected him and his dumb grins.

and then, like a crocodile, rannveig sprung for his brother with a rush of splattering water.