Stavanger Bay Bikini body

Szymon moved like a ghost over the sand, competent paws untroubled by the dip and sink of the uneven terrain; he was upwind of his brother and their unlikely visitors and noticed first Skellige’s towering, wraithlike form. A low growl of greeting rumbled from his jaws around the muffled mouthful of a flat-bodied flounder for the caches. As he drew nearer, his sulphureous gaze flitted first toward the supposed patriarch, a capable looking wolf who surpassed Szymon in height — a fact that did not trouble the youngest Cairn as it once did. Russet and gold fur cloaked the stranger, whose eyes were averted respectfully, and upon one side of his body was written a grotesque chronicle of violent battle — a capable wolf, indeed, to have survived whatever he did. Szymon allowed his eerie yellow eyes to travel toward the wolf’s face, particularly the absence of a right eye. It was useful information should the situation escalate, but for now Szymon lingered in the background, his shoulder even with the curve of Skellige’s ribcage.