Stavanger Bay her early leaf's a flower

The day had come.

Szymon, splashing ashore after an invigorating swim that bore the chill of early autumn, tilted his head to cast an oblique glance toward the cliff above. Doe’s cry had caught his attention as little else could, and the sight of two silhouettes where he’d expected one clued him in to the significance of the moment. Qilaq’s time of judgment was nigh, and though he believed he knew firsthand how it pained Doe to cast her daughter into the Sea, he also knew it was a task that only the pack’s witch doctor could complete. He stood on the shoreline, rising to his full height, his head and tail held with exaggerated pride — he was proud of all that Qilaq had achieved since the first day her paws had touched down on the hallowed sands of the Blackrock warband. She was taller now, and stronger, and the strength of Doe’s love and Szymon’s protection would guide her safely ashore. Throwing back his head, he called encouragingly to his daughter in a long, sonorous howl as the wind whipped at his fur. He wondered what spirit guide she would receive, believing with all of himself that she would be returned to him and reborn with the Sea’s blessing. Then, as his cry came to an undulating close, he stood facing the ocean — he would watch for her to fall, and he would watch until she, like her mother before her, tumbled into a heap at his paws.