Shimmering Sands "it's calm before the storm, winslow."

true to his aim, knaven's bolt struck. lionel glared his way, then squared his shoulders beneath the creme-brulee of his overcoat. why couldn't his mother and father's genes combined to give him that deep chocolate hue so granted knaven? lionel stuck out like a bloated thumb, the underbelly of a worm —
"that sounds great," he grunted, choosing to attribute his dour mood in the direction of the implacable rain. "should we stay close to the shore, though? camp out for a bit, see if the others show."
lionel knew they had all made it, in some bonebit place of himself, the one linked to sea and stars and mother standing on the rise, waving them off. "i'm not too proud to eat scraps, like some people around here, but rabbit sounds nice."
he flicked his ears back, kept close to knaven as they moved.