Stavanger Bay with the salt on our skin

The gangster held still as he was approached by the quiet Cairn, Szymon whose muzzle had was slick with the blood of the sea lion pups that the Atoll had split open before the gathered. Eyes of fiery red-orange studied the pallid Cairn for a moment, a slight tense in his shoulders (for allowing touch was such a rare thing for the ex sovereign) as the younger male smeared the putrid, crimson plasma on his shoulder. A low chuff of approval was given from the gangster when Szymon offered him a warm smile and a rumble of welcome, before the pallid male moved on to the next in line. Marked with blood, the Fearghal left to join the others in marking of the borders with the blood he'd been baptized with.