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

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?”