Blackbeak Bluff I'll admit I tripped on your waistline

It was a fool's errand but he was on it anyway, certain that there was no good outcome to be had one way or the other. The silver wolf was right; she was far from the reaches he frequented, but he has pushed past them now in search of her. He knew nothing about her other than she had brothers. He only assumed she lived further down the coast in the direction he encountered her in, and so that is where the tides took him that day. The circling, pacing tracks in the sand that doubled back on themselves and changed gaits erratically told a story.

He wished he was oblivious to the consequences of seasonal affairs. But he had been learned about the birds and the bees. The wenches were off limits during their heat; a scent he only recognized on his coat after the fact. The stories of spring sirens must be true he reckoned, imagining the seafarers who had been lured to their deaths, imaging their deaths were far more instant than the delayed one of his that he was still expecting. Surely, he was convinced, someone was going to make away with him sooner than later.

He ran out of time to fret and second-guess what he was doing away from the bay. There she was, with a feed of fish for herself. He glanced to her flank — or tried. He could not really see it. There would be no quick answer for him with which to turn and run with. Swallowing, and sighing, he slowly approached. Head down, ears back, eyes cast just ahead of his own paws. His tail was tight to his hocks, and he half-crouched when he stopped a few lengths of himself from her. He was not sure what to say, and the only thing he could think of seemed so woefully inadequate and infinitesimal that he could hardly find his voice to say it at all.

"I'm sorry..."