Sea Lion Shores danger close

Undersea, she said. Not Blackrock Depths. Not Warsaw. Szymon’s ears flattened against his head, and he jerked his muzzle askance to sunder the uneasy confederation of their locked eyes, his incisors clipping anxiously at the fur along his elbow. If Moorhen’s tentative use of “uncle” threw him for a loop, the only indication was an uneasy flicker of one tattered ear. “There is no h-h-home,” he informed her in a cool, calm voice. He bowed his head and curled in upon himself, his tail sweeping to clasp his hip; without speaking, he ceded the kill to the banded raven and in this way submitted to her demands. If she wanted him to go to the island, he would go — not with any particular pleasure or joy, but with absolute obedience. His wife and children were gone; there was no reason for him to demur. “Okay,” he acquiesced more eloquently, fastening his teeth upon the scabbed flesh of his tail.