Stavanger Bay fancy thinking the beast was something you could hunt and kill

he had mulled over the idea of approaching the stavanger borders, though not for fear of the blood that speckled the shore's perimeters. if his tenure in the teekon was to be of any duration, he needed some sort of alignment in which to be housed -- and a quick study of the coastal pack showed that they housed no slouches.

besides that, he was hungy -- and packs often had food. he had not worked up enough of an appetite where he was ready to crawl groveling to their borders, so instead he left small trails of his passage that any intrepid wolf could detect; crunched leaves, pawprints, the snag of dirty fur caught in briars.

he had yet to come outwardly close to the borders, but he was an interloper -- eventually, some soul would come across him in their daily goings.

I hope this is okay! I did not want to pp finding Murgash without your permission.

The monster that battered against the confines of Szymon’s rib cage had wailed for days without rest. The advent of Sharkbait and her trespassing father, followed so swiftly by the paltry stray who had reeked of infection and venom, had put his senses on high alert and befouled his already touchy temper. Now the convex swell of his black-banded chest heaved with a silent push of effort as his scarred paws propelled him forward after an unsuspecting ground squirrel — a snap of heavy jaws cut the fat rodent’s death cry in two. Doe, he thought, would enjoy a break from oceanic fare, and perhaps she could coax the soot-colored foundling to eat as well. The little sea urchin was so thin and frail — Szymon saw elements of himself in the undersized youth and did not wish to see her battered and bloodied by Sharkbait. It was an overture of compassion that he would have bitterly denied had he been accused of it — he was a Cairn, after all — but it was as involuntary as his feelings for Doe.

The marks of passage he uncovered as he returned home — a snag of fur that was not his own caught in the gnarled growth surrounding the bay; the press of paws that bore an unfamiliar and somewhat sour smell; the lingering scent of an unfamiliar presence that did not bear Donnelaith’s woodsy aroma — caught Szymon’s attention, and he was swift to bury his prize safely within the territory borders before setting out again, scratches of his blunt talons and a virulent scent mark stating plainly that the ground squirrel was not of the communal caches and should not be touched.

Hackles ablaze along his spine in a fiery bristle of salt, ginger, and cinnamon, he thrust his tattered ears attentively forward and slunk forth, following the stranger’s scent — if only to ensure that this creature was not related to the disgusting, pitiful excuse of a beast that had cried for unwarranted succor from the Blackrock wolves before soiling Donnelaith’s doorstep.

he is meant to be discovered! :D

murgash had not bothered to conceal himself, finding no honor or boldness in slithering under the guise of cover. he expected to e discovered soon -- the frequent and heavy markings that lanced the borders showed that the area was regulated frequently. he would not breach the sanctity of their marked coven, but he had every intention of familiarizing himself with their business and goings before being caught. 

his studies did not go unnoticed; as murgash jauntily strolled down a worn deer path he heard the approach of another. the beast slowed to a stop, his spindly tail held straight behind his body and his flybitten ears were pressed forth as a pale, creamlike male erupted from the hedge. 

everything about the male's bristled hackles and deportment said he was aware of murgash's presence, and likely resented it. murgash kept his posture neutral, swiping his tongue noisily across his slathering chops as he awaited the stranger's address.

The creature Szymon found himself faced with was like no beast he had ever seen before — that it was a wolf, he had no doubt, but what a wolf! Sulphureous eyes watched with rapt attention as the mangy wanderer paused and arranged his threadbare limbs into a neutral position; it appeased the Cairn boy that this wolf, at least, seemed to understand the atavistic etiquette of his kind. A guttural chuff of wary greeting spilled from Szymon’s jaws as he carefully regarded the stranger — male, older than Szymon, and seemingly able-bodied underneath the pock-marked, roughhewn hide. The youngest Cairn’s musculature settled into a waiting readiness should the dark wolf prove antagonistic — and with an eloquent lift of one brow and a brusque cant of his scarred muzzle in the direction of the bay, “You c-c-come t-too c-c-close,” he said quietly, his bass timbre marred by the stutter that locked fists around his stumbling tongue. Though the wolf had not trespassed by any means, Szymon found himself on high alert.

“Wh-What is it you w-w-want, wolf?” he spat, forcing the words bodily from his tongue as he stared pointedly at the fell beast, a ready growl stirring within his chest and sharpening his guttural voice. The wolf was either clumsy and stupid, or he had wanted to be found. From the lack of surprise he regarded Szymon with, the Guyot guessed it was the latter — but only time would tell.

The influx of visitors at his border had been concerning. While the wraith did not rationally believe that they could live there without having their presence requested on the edges of the pack, he had found that the vast majority of the beasts who arrived were pathetic examples of their kind. The great sea wolf was growing worrisome of the type of wolf that thrived in the wilds; perhaps they were all weak and meager. The swarthy brute could not begin to fathom what he would do if another disaster arrived at the edges of his bay. Skellige could not imagine how he could suffer through another unbearable meeting with a creature who didn’t have the decency to arrive in their best state.
 
Trailing water as he exited the waves, the wraith picked his way across the shore and toward the entrance to their pack. His eyes followed the trail that had been left by Szymon, and as he cast his nose toward the wind, he could breathe in the strange herbs that lingered on his youngest brother’s pelt. The boy had been still been spending a great deal of time with the witch doctor.
 
Fixing his russet gaze on the ragged figure of a stranger, the titan found himself bemused. There was a flush of curiosity that soared through him, leaving him to stand with his skull lifted and his eyes trained on the two males. Szymon was wary of the mangy wolf, but Skellige was captivated by him. The strange tufts of fur missing from his pelt and the ragged tassel that hung at his rear – he was an unkempt and freakish sight to behold. Instead of speaking, the leviathan watched from a short distance away.

ignore my horrible interpretation of what a lowborn idiot sounds like - i'll work on it.

murgash's murkgrey gaze fell on szymon's frame, studying his threadbare constitution and marring of black that peppered his barrel. the mongrel was sizing him up, consuming him -- and idly, murgash wondered what type of fight szymon was capable of conjuring in the name of defense.

but the stutter -- murgash's eyes widened with wicked delight to behold such a crippling dysfuction; a crinkle in the corner of his heavily laden jowls announced his dissolute amusement. he would have devised a cutting verbal blow marked to strike szymon down then and there for his deficit, if he was the clever sort. thankfully, he was not.

"three 'ours then, wouldent you saey?" his blocky muzzle canted as he motioned for the headlands that marked the bay's borders. "response toime." the plague-riddled wolf elaborated, as if szymon's stuter was also responsible for afflicting his mental capacity. "it's food'un shelter i be waunting, tho' food mos'ly -- youse got food, 'avent you?" he sniffed the air inquiringly, accentuating how hungry he was with a simpering, drool-ridden grin. his grin dissipated when he heard something, and abruptly the male pressed both mange-torn ears forward in alarm.

murgash just about leapt back as he saw the form of the wolf that held back; a carnal and rough-shod wolf such as himself -- but much handsomer. something about the animus that swirled about skellige made murgash strongly associate feelings of predatory darkness -- he shifted his clouded, mossgrey gaze to the wraith carefully. "by sithis, that'sun big bloke!" murgash's voice cast loudly, as if cheerful -- meanwhile he shouldered the air between szymon and him as if they were old comrades. "say, youse brothers?" he had just noticed the rippling markings that both bore; markings that the recreant had never witnessed before.

I like it!

Szymon watched impassively as the mange-riddled wolf shaped its crooked jaws into an expression of amusement, eyes flying wide to marvel at the youngest Cairn’s speech impediment. No reply was offered in answer to the patchwork male’s rhetorical question; the black-banded wolf merely fixed his unlikely counterpart with a flat, piercing stare that bore a patently unamused air. The stutter was just one part of Szymon’s personal hell — he did not, as this strange wolf did, embrace those things that were imperfect and flawed. “Y-Y-You c-can hunt, c-can’t you?” shot back the golden-eyed boy in the same vein with a shrug of his sharp, angular shoulders. The smell of a fresh kill lingered in Szymon’s salt-crusted, bristling pelt; he found the question to be rhetorical at best. Something about this wolf reminded him of Jagoda — a hulking, base creature fit for battle and not much else. The pack needed wolves with muscle and grit, though.

One tattered ear fanned back, skimming the crown of Szymon’s skull at his brother’s approach — though the younger wolf did not turn, he sensed the dread Leviathan’s approach like a crackle of electricity or a seaborne chill in the air. He did not retreat when the other wolf blithely shouldered forward with a powerful roll of muscle, but a curl of his kohl-lined lips revealed his displeasure. “Brothers,” Szymon agreed in a low, guttural rumble, nodding affirmation. “Wh-What w-w-would you g-give for sh-shelter and f-food?’ Skellige would need the wolf’s full loyalty — if the Sea found this creature willing, they would be one warhound stronger should Ksenia arrive at their doorstep with witless minions in thrall. “Wh-Where d-do your loyalties lie?”

The titan listened as the mangy creature spoke with a peculiar twist about his words. Following the movements of his tongue with his eyes, Skellige realized that he did not know where the wild-furred beast hailed from or if he would be much good to them. He had uttered the name of Sithis in a sentence that could only have been constructed as a form of worship. The wraith did not know of this being, or God, but he was firm on the idea that he would not share such a belief. The sea had many great beings to watch over her, and many of them had names, but it was blasphemous to speak of them directly. The true callings of the spirits that had settled over his ocean would never be uttered by his lips.
 
The haggard wolf was quick enough to surmise the relation between Szymon and Skellige, which many had failed to do. The leviathan still held his silence and allowed for his youngest sibling to take the helm. The pallid Cairn was stoic and stiff-limbed in his approach with the ragged stranger, but Szymon had taken on a façade of a brute with their claiming. It was not to be reprimanded; for all of the times that Skellige had torn his fangs across his brother’s body, it would not happen because he was growing out of his shell. The boy had not yet stepped on any toes, so he was left to shrink and grow as he needed.
 
The dark patch-work wolf on the border, though… he was something else entirely. Skellige felt almost as though the great ones had sent him to his borders with the intent of offering him a great and savage being. He was interested in their offer and knew that he would need only to hear the mangy mutt pledge his loyalty before he would allow him in.

what would he give for food? murgash had hoped szymon would bring that delectable subject to light; a base, indecent smile split his drool-ridden jowls as he contemplated eagerly the many atrocities he would happily commit for a simple meal. "jus' about enythin'." he answered forcibly, one of his torn ears pressed forth in a mixed gesture of anticipation.

he did not question why the stormbringer-like wolf hadn't yet spoken; but the silence expelled from skellige was not lost on murgash. where do your loyalties lie? the mange-infested male drew his gaze back to szymon solemnly, a strange gleam haunting the soulless grey of his unclouded iris. the air of austerity was a ruse -- he leaned forward, his salacious smile reappearing: "that depends; 'ow much food ye got?" as much as he wished to end the strangely-lopped interrogation on the finality that he'd do anything for food, he added quickly in afterthought: "naem's murgash. purvey'a ov fine foods an' skilled red hand of the brotherhood."

Szymon could appreciate the scourge wolf’s single-minded selfishness. It was something each of the Cairn children possessed — the hunger or thirst for something that drove them obsessively and recklessly forward. That this wolf’s hunger was literal did not matter to the boy. As long as he could be persuaded to associate Skellige with food, Murgash might prove useful to the Blackrock Depths wolves. The ghost of an answering grin, roguish and greedy, tipped the corners of the golden-eyed Cairn’s scarred lips. “P-Prove it,” Szymon said succinctly. “P-P-Perform a task f-for th-the Leviathan, Murgash,” he commanded, jerking his muzzle toward his silent brother, “and if h-he d-d-deems it w-well d-d-done, you w-will be fed of our r-reserves.” Licking his lips, Szymon found himself wondering about the red hand of the brotherhood — but first of all, he felt the wolf should be tested by the Sea as all of Skellige’s warhounds were. Glancing at his brother, for Skellige could confirm or deny the task at will, yet keeping his attention largely trained on Murgash, “Th-There is an island,” Szymon suggested, “off the c-c-coast, n-north of the s-sea lions’ sh-shoals. A s-swim at high t-t-tide is n-n-no easy f-f-feat for m-most wolves.” In that way, Skellige could test the Sea’s offering of this wolf, and Murgash would be baptized in the brine that ran through the Cairns’ veins. At that, Szymon fell silent, allowing his brother to speak in judgment for this fell beast.

u kids can skip me if I'm being slow

It seemed that it was hunger that had driven the mange-ridden mutt to their borders. Skellige would have turned him away had it not been for his introduction. A red hand of the brotherhood. Lifting his brows just slightly, the leviathan peered at this newfound creature with a light of curiosity. Skellige did not know of the brotherhood, but the wolf Murgash had spoken as if it would bear weight in the decision to allow him into the ranks of the depths. It was not until Szymon spoke of a trial that Skellige actually found himself ready to commit to the freakish creature. Swim to the island, he thought to himself with a curling smirk. The ocean would baptize him and either swallow him whole or spit him back to shore. 

"Swim to the island and return with a string of kelp from the waters, and you will be fed until you're full," he spoke finally out of agreement with his youngest sibling. His rumbling baritone nearly faded into the sound of the crashing waves. With a gesture of his muzzle, the wraith pointed their newest recruit toward the island and then fixed him with a pointed stare. Should he return, Skellige would wish to learn more of the brotherhood. 

swim, the stuttering seawolf said -- swim. murgash leveled a curious gaze to the paler brother, wondering if szymon's test was a fool's errand. he was not thrilled about the prospect of swimming across an apparent channel at high tide, but refused to let even a flicker of doubt materialize on his fiendish features. it seemed the silent brother agreed -- and this time, spoke: murgash curiously eyeballed him before executing an exaggerated and clumsy courtesy. "well then, best get to it." he cheerily exclaimed, the roguish grin returning to his revolting jowls. "yous comin'?"

with that, the filthy rogue would turn on his thick paws and make for this apparent perilous island in which he may or may not perish. long as there was food and women in davy jone's locker, he'd be fine.