Ocean's Breath Plateau little w[o/a]rri[e/o]r

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Skellige was not a kind wolf. Savage and wild, ruthless as the sea he so loved, he was feared by those who opposed him — if they still lived, which was doubtful — and often even by those who loved him. His wrath, once incurred, was merciless — the spirit of the Great White Shark lived within the eldest Cairn and it was of no surprise to anyone that he survived the drop with enough spit and vinegar to test the mettle of his siblings directly thereafter.

Szymon, on the other hand, was slower and clumsier and smaller than his littermates — a Tonka truck among war machines. That he survived the drop had shocked and startled his family. The golden child knew what it was to be bloody and bruised before he could confidently walk a straight line, and in the Cairn way, learned that he was responsible for fighting — and winning — his own battles. A burst blood vessel in his eye from the force of his tiny body hitting the water had stained one of those sulphureous eyes red and rendered him half-blind for several weeks until it healed, and still Szymon had demonstrated a will to live and thrive that earned Skellige’s regard. A day hadn’t gone by without him being bowled over or shaken, and every single time he’d picked himself back up and kept on going. Like the Sea Turtle spirit he called his own, Szymon was a quiet, placid creature, armored with understated tenacity.

What Skellige gave Szymon was a deep, abiding love as fierce as his violence — it was wholly different from the gentle patience the youngest Cairn now found in Deirdre, but there was something about it that felt the same. It was this similar thread that settled his jumping nerves to some degree — but the fear that this scenario was somehow a trap kept him from fully relaxing. The touch of Deirdre’s soft nose upon his furrowed brow caused the boy to freeze — to stiffen, as one eye cracked open to regard her. In the dryad’s eyes was affection and kindness warmer than sunlight. Though his body was set to trembling at their close proximity, Szymon did not pull away or evade her touch. “It will come to you,” softly intoned the sylph, an undercurrent of belief in Szymon’s abilities coloring her sweet timbre. His twitching tail began to beat the earth in a gentle wag.

“Mm,” the splendidly deep voice sighed from Szymon’s quivering jaws as the muscles of his throat and muzzle began to unclench themselves. It was a pleasurable sound, a note of burgeoning trust. Carefully — attempting to trick himself by not actively reaching for words — he considered the best way to make himself understood using the least amount of words. Lifting his head from his paws and opening his other eye to look at the dryad directly, Szymon — somewhat clumsily, calling on the inclination for affection that he had suppressed his entire life — tilted his head to brush the bridge of his muzzle lightly along the underside of her jaw. A submissive gesture, for despite Deirdre’s youth, Szymon could manage nothing more.

Turning his head, he nosed pointedly at the inky markings that graced his pale fur, his eyes striving to remain fixed on Deirdre’s face. Once, twice, he butted at them with his nose, drawing air into his lungs and letting it free slowly. Skellige…brother… The words were difficult, and occasionally impossible. Szymon swallowed hard. Without removing his gaze from Deirdre’s, trying to draw strength from the warmth he saw therein, “S-S-S — Sk-Sk — ” he gritted out, his tongue thick and stupid in his mouth. Straightening his neck, Szymon looked like a creature in the grips of respiratory distress, but his golden eyes — although desperately ashamed — attempted to reassure the girl. This was just something that…happened. It was inconvenient and embarrassing, but it was all Szymon had. He tried another tack: “B-B-B — ” he ground out, pushing himself upright into a sitting position as though this might somehow help matters, “m-my — b-b-br-br — bro — th-th-th-th — rrrrr — ” Panting raggedly, he hung his head so low his muzzle bumped the earth, his sides heaving from the brief exertion of making himself understood.

Eyes glittering with the self-loathing that generally followed his attempts at speech, Szymon heaved a sigh and for a moment could not seem to meet Deirdre’s eyes.

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