Shimmering Sands the hawser rolls, the vessel’s whole and christ, it’s thin

Ford's peculiar ways were more than just difficult to grasp; they were nearly impossible. Rannveig may have believed to know the forced smile – fabricated and stiff – but he knew nothing about what warred underneath the surface of the skeletal brute. As much as the stormcloud brother would have liked to think he was well-versed in the art of studying the titan, he had about as much skill as a blobfish. Studied as he was, he was no reader of Ford Mayfair-Cairn; he never would be.

The dredge dove into the water in pursuit, bubbles rising from his nostrils and disappearing against the surface of the swell. The warhound paddled carefully until he knew that he was risking his lungs. Once there, he turned around to peer through the murky liquid in search of Rannveig. Part of him expected to see that daft smile, even through the sea water. Once he felt his lungs strain and his heart begin to pound, Ford paddled for the surface and broke it with a deep inhale.

A single wave crashed over his frame and forced him toward the shore, threatening to send him back down. He allowed it for a moment before bobbing again to the surface and breathing the saline air through wide nostrils. Part of him cursed the need for oxygen. Given the choice, Ford would have remained beneath the swell for the rest of his days.