a knife named nostalgia

It had been quite some time since he'd fished in salt water, or even brackish water. Being a slave, there wasn't much he could access to aid him in his endeavour. Thus, it was time to fall back on his old skillset. He barely remembered his days of helping his father fish, though the techniques still clung to his muscle fibres and fangs. After so much time spent as a concubine- a toy for others to use and abuse, it felt nice to be able to put in work on his own whims. Wading into the waves, it took a moment for his delicate form to adjust to the drop in temperature. Once his muscles loosened up after the shock of the autumn sea, he let out a deep breath. Drew another one in, let it out. Each step further into the surf he filled and emptied his lungs in preparation for the dive. He was a skilled swimmer still, slick coat well suited to gliding through the water without weighing him down. Once his shoulders were soaked by the push and pull of the tide, he took in one last deep breath and disappeared beneath the murky water. It stung his eyes to open them beneath the water, but he needed to see his quarry. Over time he would likely begin to develop a tolerance for the salt water sting, but for now he settled for ignoring the sensation.

The flash of silvery scales caught his attention, further out towards the open sea. A fairly large fish, though he couldn't quite identify what kind from this distance. Breaking the surface briefly, freckled features glistening in the low light of the overcast morning, he sucked in a few quick breaths. Keeping below the water as much as possible seemed like the best option, splashing around near the surface would scare away any good catches. Down he dove again, long strokes with his forepaws drawing him further out to sea. Confident as he was in his own abilities, the dappled man was well aware of the dangers that the sea offered. Ripcurrents, dropoffs, and predators as well. He couldn't get tunnel vision while he hunted. He found himself slowing, searching for that large, sleek form he'd caught sight of before. There it was! Above him now. Twisting his lithe form in the water, he fought the current to slide up from beneath the fish. The large eyes rolling in search of the disturbance below caught him sneaking up, and the mullet tried for a hasty escape. He scored its flank with his outstretched claws, before breaking the surface with a gasp. He didn't see too many common mullet, and he wasn't ready to let this one go. That was a few kilograms of fresh meat, full of rich oils and fats that would be perfect to feed a hungry pack.

Dark grey dorsal fin breaching the waves, the wounded fish struggled to escape. With another long breath, he sunk back down to finish the kill. Leaving a trail of blood in its wake, it became exceedingly easy to follow the mullet as it zipped through the water. Quick strokes of his forelimbs and short kicking of his back legs brought him within striking range, and the dark male sunk his fangs into the thrashing tail as soon as he got close enough. Then, it became a deadly game of tug-of-war. The struggling fish flailed desperately to escape his grip, while he backpedaled towards the shallows. He had to force the mullet closer to the surface so he could heave desperate breaths through his nostrils while he swam against the powerful movements of the fish trying to escape his jaws. By the time he felt thick, dense sand under his paws, he was exhausted. Perhaps going after a fish that was five kilograms and twenty-five inches long on his first attempt in years had not been his smartest move.

Worse yet, the struggle had attracted far more dangerous attention. A young bull shark, spotting an opportunity for an easy meal, was closing in. The dark coated fisher had only gotten his hard earned catch halfway out of the water when the four foot long predator lunged up the surf to grab onto the head of the gawping, struggling mullet. He dropped his prize with a yelp of shock, before snarling in outrage. How dare this overgrown guppy try and take what was rightfully his? Before the stupid beast could wriggle back into the water, he lunged for it. With a mouth full of half-dead fish, the young shark couldn't snap at him. It wriggled and thrashed in an attempt to drag its stolen meal into the sea, but the wolf was faster on land. Outstretched paws landed squarely on that broad, flat head. Not enough to kill it on impact, but enough to stun the creature. With the young shark wriggling half-heartedly into the surf, he found himself stomping repeatedly on its skull with both forepaws in hopes of buckling it beneath the force of the blows. It took nearly a dozen tries, but eventually his assault was fruitful. Something crunched under his dark paws, and the shark ceased its movement altogether.

Letting all of his breath escape in a whoosh, the svelte fisher trundled on shaky limbs to the shark's tail, grabbing it behind the fin, and dragging it up the beach and well away from the water. Thankfully, the shark's teeth had become quite well lodged in the mullet, and the whole mess moved as one while he dragged it towards the edge of the plains. Nothing else was coming out of the water to steal his hard won prizes. Groaning, he opted to collapse on his belly beside the odd assortment of fish, panting with exertion. He'd call someone to come help carry it to the pantry later.

((Final word count: 980))