Sea Lion Shores danger close

Moorhen’s ire surprised Szymon, but his response was surprisingly muted given his typical propensity for violence. Tattered ears flattened against his skull, and the bridge of his muzzle wrinkled briefly as a low rumble churned discontentedly in his throat, but he kept to a stony silence. She was probably just hungry — Doe always snapped when she was hungry. His rawboned musculature tensed when the seawolf approached him, muzzle dipping low as a sliver of whalebone white crept into his eye, but he unfurled his tongue and settled his flews over the curl of serrated cutlery as he sullenly relinquished his grip on his tail. “You c-c-can g-growl,” he informed her grumpily. She was a woman, but she was not Leokadia or Ksenia; he did not fear her. She was only waspish, her moods heightened by her season. Doe had been the same.

A flicker of irritation rose in his gut. Didn’t she get it? He didn’t want her to make a home for him. His home was leagues beneath the surface, miles away, in the heart of a woman who didn’t want him — had no use for him. You didn’t come back from that. You didn’t find a new home. You died where you stood. But he was tired, and hungry, and he didn’t want to argue with her. He didn’t want her to use that tone on him, a wheedling, anxious, eager-to-please entreat that he instantaneously abhorred: “T-T-Tell me what to d-d-d-do,” he told her plainly.

“What do you w-w-want.”