Stavanger Bay what is ruin if not the body becoming aware of itself

Stavanger Bay is not the safe haven it had once been for Witchdoctor and this development is unsurprising because it’s absent Skellige and his crew. The spirits whisper insistently and sometimes the white noise becomes screams in his head. It’s busy in here, Riptide thinks with unbidden distaste. Even without the gangster squabbling and fighting with him for control. Busy, busy, busy. Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, looks like you need a Doctor! Ridiculous because he was the Witchdoctor; ridiculous because he was not ill. The voices whisper and giggle as he paces along the white sand shore of the Bay, pausing to glimpse over his svelte shoulder at the rise of red rock that forms a cocoon around the Bay. Witchdoctor is careful not to stray too far from Wheeling Gull Isle, tethered to it as he was. Well, not to the territory specifically but rather a fiery red-head that was about to give birth to his children any second now. No. Arturo’s children. No. His children? By proxy? No. His children. It didn’t matter that Arturo sired them. They were one in the same, he and the gangster. Or at least, they shared a bones and blood and flesh and mind. Or rather, they had shared.

The king was dead and the nightmare that swooped in to steal his place was unsure — always so unsure! — of if he’s the painted villain or the tragic hero. Witchdoctor winces and shushes the voices aloud, gnashing his sharp teeth together and breathing an audible breath of relief when they cease. Surprisingly, being in Hemlock’s presence keeps them quiet and that was reason enough to stay with her …providing she doesn’t give him the boot, first. Witchdoctor’d never considered it ( because of course he hadn’t ). She’ll leave you. She’ll leave you and find another man. A better man. A sane man. Poor, broken Witchdoctor. The voices hissed and snarled and the svelte coy wolf let out a snort turned huff as he scoops up a mouthful of seaweed as he approaches it and chews it with more vigor than it necessary. It is fresh from the sea but his phantoms are being horribly unkind to him and he just wants them to stop.

Yet, he cannot return yet. Not when he is empty pretty things to decorate his freshly re-started collection of skulls and other assorted bones kept in a separate den, of course. After all, he doesn’t want his little spawn getting their greedy jaws upon his treasures. Things he’s particularly possessive about, hoarding them his baubles like a magpie.

she is bored, to say the least. sure, she should be stocking for winter, or worrying for rannoch, but neither of those things holds her interest for long. instead, her thoughts wander back to that young wolf she met in the mountains. her thoughts are muddled and heady, strange and slightly, oh so very slightly familiar to her. her scars burn at the thoughts.

so she wanders to the sea. she knows what it is, but has never ventured that far west. when she finally reaches it, she marvels at the expanse of it for what seems like hours. she is a child — she runs to the sea and chases the waves, only to be chased back. it takes her a while to finally splash in the salty waters — it is salty, saltier than her. she makes the mistake of drinking it once, then accidentally time and time again.

she exhausts herself and drags herself to shore, shaking her now heavy and wet pelt in vain. she spurts through her nose time and time again; and it seems like nothing could expel the salt and water and saltwater from her nose. her head pounds from dehydration; she's no longer as mirthful as when she came, thoroughly grumpified as one could be. she stomps further inland, shaking and snorting time and time and time again. as her head swings she catches glimpse of something, someone in the distance. it is a wolf, but thin and sharp like a coyote. her brow furrows, then even more as she sees the strand of green wet weed in his mouth. nē!

Witchdoctor pauses mid-chew, swallowing the mouthful of seaweed he’d chewed into a paste as unforgiving, scorching fiery gaze zeroes in on the ink blot that has come into his line of sight, looking a bit like an overgrown drowned rat. Brazenly, she calls to the madman who lowers his head to tear off another strip of seaweed and chew it with arrogant leisure, a indifferent cant to his head though he is horribly attentive to her, studying her unabashedly and without hidden intent. She is young, but a child to the Witchdoctor whose ears pivot back to rest at half mast atop his skull, hackles bristling as he swallows his second mouthful of seaweed. For a stretch of seconds he contemplates not answering her …though whether it is because he does not understand the foreign tongue in which she called out to him with or because he simply doesn’t want to is unclear. Perhaps, he admits to himself, it’s a bit of both. Unfortunately, it’s too little too late to pretend as if he hadn’t heard her, as if he doesn’t see her though the spirits screaming like banshees in his head are deafening at the worst of times. And they are defiantly worse today.

Foolish girl, ignorant girl, nosy girl. They scream and shriek and it becomes too unbearable for the coywolf. “Sssshhhh! Shut up! Be quiet!” He snarls aloud to the phantoms in his head, letting out a noise of relief and satisfaction when their voices of a eerie crescendo quiet down. “What do you want?” Witchdoctor demands of her gruffly, finally verbally acknowledging her presence with a curl of his lips. Can’t a man yell at the voices in his head and eat his seaweed in peace anymore?

Airi: https://youtu.be/UzYQ3Dcr9O4

she had made a mistake. a serious mistake. she had thought that he was some healer, judging from the vegetation he was worrying. but when he turned to fix his gaze on her, she froze. there was a fire in his eyes. she had seen fire in people's eyes before, many a time, but this one...was... different. it was uncontrolled with a misplaced passion.

then he spoke.

his voice was not directed to her, not at first. it was silencing an unseen force. she had a voice in her head,
sure, but she never was like that. she didn't know how to respond, even when his words were finally directed towards her. she simply stayed there, her eyes wide, ears plastered against her wet head. 

Witchdoctor’s expression grows terse as he waits for the ebony dappled girl to answer his question and is left unsatisfied by her lack of response. Had he stuttered? Had he even spoken at all? He thought he had but …it could have been the voices despite that for the moment they are quieted at his command ( not that Witchdoctor expects it to last long ). She is looking at him with owlish eyes and ears slicked back to his skull and he scowls for a moment longer before his muzzle splits in a cheshire cat grin and he chuckles. There is no apology for unsettling her, no remorse. If anything it strokes his ego, acting like gasoline to a fire. He delights in it, finds it amusing. “Well?” Witchdoctor inquires sharply, intending to remind her that she never answered his question. “Are you going to stare at me like a deer at an inferno all day? Or are you going to speak?” Witchdoctor bows his head and noses through the tangle of seaweed at his paws once more, grasping it betwixt his teeth and tears off another piece to begin chewing.

she should just walk away. she really should. this isn't a person to have a normal conversation. but she didn't even know where to go, or if he would follow. so she stood there, her expression frightened. it slowly turned into tension as he snapped at her. so she snapped back. what is wrong with you?