Lore
A Fin comes up in the shallows beside a fishermanʼs boot. Small, waist-high to a child, with a grin that holds too many teeth and a tail-fin working hard enough to cloud the river with silt. The fisherman stops walking; the Fin stops with him. He starts walking again, and the Fin keeps to his hip, diving and returning. A river-stone is dropped at his foot. Then a bone. Then a clay shard from the riverbed. The wagging does not stop. An hour passes. The Fin has not left. A sailor at the docks, three days back, said: "A few good dogs died in the land of the living. The deep sea took them, reshaped them, let them loose. Theyʼre looking for their Viking." Written down. No claim made yet. When a Grabbur comes out of the willows on the wrong side of the path, the grin sharpens, the walking does not slow, and one second later the willows are empty. A heartbeat after, the wagging resumes.
