Stavanger Bay Rogue Rouge

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Szymon could appreciate the wolf’s appropriate display of submission, but he found her wording confusing. “‘Work’?” he repeated succinctly with ample suspicion and skepticism lacing his tone, thankful that the stutter appeared to be held at bay — at least for now. It was an odd way to phrase things, as though she planned on being assimilated into the ranks only to leave it when a term of her making was up. Three years as a lone wolf could drive a wolf mad, though, and Doe’s own experience with the yawning, empty loneliness made him slightly more compassionate in Rogue’s favor. “Why now?” he questioned, choosing simple words that were less likely to trip him up. “Why h-here?” His stern expression and curled lip betrayed the displeasure he felt that she had not given him her name, but he would not wrest it from her grasp unwillingly. If she had no desire to live beside and love the Sea, her name would not matter to the Leviathan anyway.

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