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

while ford got intimate with getting exceptionally prune-skinned, rannveig sunned on the sand like an old dog sunning on a stone coop: he enjoyed the gentle rift of wind, and the way the sunlight seemed to envelop his pelt in soft, warm waves. he might even have drifted off to sleep a time or two, though by the time ford resurfaced from the water rannveig was awake with quiet contemplation.

he made no motion to move as ford lumbered besides him, drawing rivulents of seawater from his pelt as he settled. the question the male posed was one rannveig had wondered himself many times. "i want to believe so," he pulled out his right foreleg and itched it between needling teeth. "but believing isn't enough. you think she wont?"