The landshark moves along like a chubby tank encased in a sleek, waterproof coating. Spike stands still on the spot, watching the spectacle with a bemused expression.

A shark on legs is weird enough, now that its trying to surge forward, chubby tail wriggling back and forth as it makes a heroic effort but is getting nowhere, it's almost funny. There's a Monty Python-esque feel about it. Spike almost expects the shark's head to flip open on a hinge any moment and a troupe of angels to fly out, or a massive foot to come down from the heavens and obliterate them.

He quirks a half-smirk at Sela's enthusiastic pleasure. Squaring his shoulders and straightening himself up to his full height (aided by his Doc Martins-- he notes Sela is definitely a long tall drink of water even without her impressive boots), Spike holds out the sack.

"Spike, here. Seems as if he hasn't quite got the hang of it. Has he always had the legs, then? Where d'you want this?"