Stavanger Bay with the salt on our skin

The part of Atoll that still thought she was not a witch doctor had diminished over time, and did not speak at all to her on that fateful night. Voices were whispering to her - sensible, poisonous, and the sea - and she had no desire to escape them, this time. And perhaps she was a witch, or perhaps she was only reacting to the Leviathan's heightened mood. It matters little, except that whatever had drawn her from hers and Szymon's tangle, it had drawn her long before Skellige's summons, and she was already slipping up beside him as it rent the damp and heavy air.

All at once, her body turned to serpents and springs, and she gave a joyful shout at tacked itself onto the end of Skellige's howl and hung in the air for a moment after. Wiggling out her pleasure, she stretched to give the underside of the Leviathan's jaw a firm nudge and a few fervent licks, knowing that he, too, must revel in the joy of the day. Still, she danced away before she could find out whether or not her attentions were truly appreciated.

"Sing, scream, raise a shout!" she cried, leaping and twisting and turning as she did just that. "The Day of Joy is upon us! Sisters, brothers - come and submit yourselves to the will of the waves!"

The time was upon them! Very soon, the cold, blue mother would come up and purify their land, reaching out to all corners of the bay and blessing it with her deepness, her anger, her love.

Standing before the rockpile, Atoll waited for their brethren to arrive.