Stavanger Bay league of extraordinarily grumpy gentlemen

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Szymon watched with a critical eye as Rannoch grappled with the flopping fish, missing the killing strike on his first attempt but landing it with fierce alacrity on his second. “Well done,” the angler rumbled, stretching out on the sand with his forelegs tangled together and his weight settled easily on his left hip. His ginger-laced tail thumped the earth as he threw back his head and uttered a triumphant congratulatory howl. “Eat,” he invited the cub, “and when you’ve f-f-finished, I’ll show y-you more.” A true seawolf could never go hungry — not when the shores were lined with scuttling crabs and the rocks peppered with clinging mussels. Skellige had deemed the grayscale youth his protégé — and that meant he was Szymon’s responsibility as much as Qilaq was. Without any thought to the very real possibility that Rannoch might one day outrank him, given his greater size and Skellige’s tutelage, Szymon accepted the turquoise-eyed cub. Their lessons together would only expand from here.

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