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

The time that he spent alone was certainly well-needed.

Ford could not say that he loved his siblings, or the family that he came from, but he had been raised under a certain conditioning. He had been taught about loyalty to his blood, and the need to protect. If he had been born to Skellige at a different time, the prospect of family would have been one that had been cast aside without question. Perhaps, he would have thrived underneath a different type of raising. If he had been taught only to follow his deepest desires and needs, he would have turned into an entirely different beast. Still, formidable, but someone who did not feel inclined to note how others might react to his harsh nature. There was a chance that he had turned into a greater monster with the gifts he had been given; unyielding and fiercely protective of what he knew was his.

Once the ocean had taken his strength from him, the warhound made his way to the shore. When his paws met the sand beneath the swell, he could feel the muscles in his limbs quiver. It was a weariness that he welcomed, knowing that it would make him stronger. Sea water drizzled from his broad frame and spattered against the shore, riding the length of his dark coat down until it was set free again. The titan turned to Rannveig, no longer irritated with his younger brother's daft expression. The ocean had subsided his need to reprimand the lackadaisical slate surfer.

“Do you think Morrigan will be able to leave Warsaw behind?” he inquired. The smoky weight of his baritone was softer than it typically was. There was a sidelong glance toward Rannveig, waiting to see what might transpire on the dredge's face.