
At first Fish though the kin had drowned, he was so still. A sinuous bundle of tendrils wafted gently in the surf, the only sign of movement. It didn’t even look like he was breathing, and his eyes were shut tight- possibly in death’s rigor, possibly just squinted against the sun. He was a fragile-looking thing, as delicate as the inside of a shell, and hadn’t yet begun to bloat.
But why was she here? Why was she called to a dead body? She didn’t really… do dead bodies. Of kin. Fish, game animals, scavenged carcasses, those were another story entirely, but- wait, was he moving?