Stavanger Bay Warpless

The pirate had taken to making his rounds along the borders of the bay. He had paced dutifully along the edges. Some still contained the dark black stones that had been placed there to guard his father's land. There was a strange sensation to seeing what remained of the former pack. The ghostly figure wondered what had happened after he and Sandpiper were pulled away. He often thought his life would be entirely different if they had all stayed and built a family. Skellige had spoken of alliances and the prospect of war; he had told the two children of the black rock every night. But what if the pallid seafarer had never been pulled from the bay? Would he still feel such discomfort at being there or would he have reigned over the depths as his father had intended? He would never know, so he could not dwell.

Trekking through the cold sand, Kingfisher spotted an unfamiliar shape. It appeared to be a lump of russet fur that had tucked itself into the snow-flecked sands. She did not seem to be sleeping, so he approached her with a brazen swagger and lifted his skull upward. “Ahoy, lass,” he barked; his voice was gruff against his throat. “What brings ye to me bay?”