Gilded Bay the depths are calling

the poor thing was so cold that speech seemed to have eluded him entirely. clucking his tongue like an old crone, govinda jerked his chin, glancing inland in invitation. walk with me, he commanded gently. you will stay warm if you keep moving, and the movement will help you dry off, too. he began to pad away, craning his neck to peer at the man.

what was going through his mind, anyway? the look in those golden eyes--so like his own--was something feral and fatalistic.