Good for the heart, huh?

Well, he supposed as he prodded the weed with his nose, he did need that. And probably to get to his heart, he’d need to eat it. (Richter was smart, yes, but anatomy was not his strong suit. He fully believed it would get to his heart if he ate it.) Just as he bit through a piece, Lorroakan’s voice stopped him. Tastes bad, his companion said, and he was struck dumb for a moment, seaweed hanging from his mouth like he was a particularly wolf-shaped cow. He looked at the plant, then back to the other man, then to the plant again. And his nose wrinkled back as the taste finally punched through the stupification of his companion’s words. It tasted like he’d just bit into the ocean itself, concentrated into something slimy and wet like the most unpleasant pasta in the world. Richter gagged around the salt, teeth catching on something crunchy (why was it crunchy? Wasn’t it a weed?) before he finally flung the remains from his mouth and onto the sand. He used his paw to scrape his tongue, but really only succeeded in getting sand in his mouth.

By the time he was done spitting and making a scene about sand in places it shouldn’t be, Roa had asked him a question. Richter tipped his head, letting his eyes roll back as he thought. Had he ever been much of a fisherman? He prodded at the empty spaces where memories lingered, but came up empty around each corner. Wherever he’d come from, it hadn’t had much in the way of fishing.

I can’t remember ever fishing. Maybe I tried and failed and forgot? I have no idea. He padded across the sand to stand beside the smaller man, tilting his head to look down at him.

You a good fisher?