Stavanger Bay Really bad eggs.

The water continued to do as it had always done - working across the coastline, battering the stones that stood like jagged teeth along the less hospitable sand bars, coaxed close to the shore where it could soak in to his limbs. Most of the work had been done by Dalia; she'd tended his bleeding shoulder and battered ribs, and he was not yet deep enough to lose layers of her medicine. When his thoughts grew heavier than the brine-soaked pelt he carried, Firefly moved back from the sea. He lurched to the shore and tread slowly, like a tired old lion, to a dry patch where the sun could warm him.

He had barely made landfall when a voice drifted his way; Firefly grew tense upon first hearing it, before the words made sense to him, but afterwards he wondered if the stranger was warning him or threatening him. He perused his surroundings and found her pale shape drifting closer, almost silent upon the sand. He cannot help the thin smirk that crawls across his knotted face when she speaks next — seeking answers, but who is she, and why should he speak of his motivations?

It doesn't matter, he counters, and his smirk turns in to a more emphatic sneer as he watches her - looks her over brazenly, as if he can think of other uses for that fine body, that questioning mouth. I'm here now and I am the boss, that is enough.