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Sandal

The longhorn sharks mill around the buoy like people at a continental breakfast buffet who, having spotted the one remaining cheese danish, are now trying to figure out how to dive for it politely.

“I don’t understand,” whispers Sandal, “the evolutionary advantage here.”

“Well, ramming–” Bud starts, before a fifteen-footer illustrates his point. The buoy swings wildly; he plunges off.

“Bud!” screams Sandal.

“It’s okay,” sputters Bud, treading gently back toward the buoy. “It’s okay, I don’t smell like blood or anything, right? Nice shark? Nice sharky,” and then he pets one and tears all the skin off his palm.

Sandal

Owlbears with machine guns! WHOOOR!

“What kind of roar is that?” pants Sandal as she slams the stairwell door; bullets rattle off the other side. “Are they trying to eat me or protest my choice in relationships?”

“Hopefully neither,” grunts Bud, hauling himself up the stairs and fishing something out of his shirt. Below, talons rip open the steel door. Sandal scrambles onto the roof.

“Okay!” she gasps. “Now what?” But Bud’s busy, blowing red-faced into a busted whistle.

“WHOOOR!” shriek the owlbears, piling out. Bud drops the whistle and grins. Sandal sees swooping shadows, sudden hope, looks up: orcabats.

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