Stavanger Bay like a sandbox

It hadn't been long since the salt and pepper faced male had joined the ranks of the Bay wolves. The territory was to his liking. It was vast and had various types of ecosystems within. He spent most of his beginning days exploring the land and getting familiar with the Bay. Krikor had hunted only a few times, leaving a couple of rabbits in the pack cache. He trotted alone the border most of his days, making sure his scent was among the pack's.

Krikor had only met the two leaders of the Bay. His first impression of both wolves was positive. The ebony male knew better than to mess with Ragnar. The snowy furred male would not hesitate to kill. Maybe it was a bluff but Kirkor would not do anything to find out. Thistle on the other hand was soft, but not a push over. The petite female chose to speak only when the time was right. She was a wolf of few words but she still left a strong impression on the male.

The handsome male had chosen to keep to himself for the past few days. The beach was a spot in which he hung out most often. Today, in the cool fall air, the male sat upon the sandy beach. Krikor let the waves roll up and onto his lower body. The swarthy wolf lifted his head and let the wind run through his well kept face.

Hunting shore prey had been his forte for most of his life. The storm-gray knight waded through the water, swiftly darting for the plump fish that dared swim close. The knight snapped his jaws closed around the tail of one of them, dragging it out of the water. It wriggled piteously, trying to slap him with its fins, but to no avail. Mordred dragged himself out of the water and slammed it onto a rock, stilling its frantic movements.

He hunted one fish at a time, mainly because the seagulls and other scavengers would take full advantage of buried food if he gave them the change. With another one caught, the knight turned back to the mainland, where the land would retain a fish for longer.

As he walked back, he saw another wolf sitting on the seashore. One first sight his hackles raised, for he did not recognize the wolf. But, above the fishy smell, he could scent Ragnar on his fur. The male relaxed and walked over to his presumed packmate, dropping the fish on the ground. "Well met."

Krikor had little experience hunting fish and other marine prey. Most of his life had payed out in forests where the only abundant prey was ungulates and various smaller mammals. Occasionally if the salt and pepper male felt up to the task, a bird.

When a silver packmate dropped his fish and greeted him, the ebony wolf stood up and dipped his neat head in respect. "Pleasure is all mine. I am Krikor. Your name is?" The inky wolf inquired curiously. The male in front of him was a good bit taller, and muscular, than Kirkor. The stranger's eyes shined a bright silver contained by a darker shade. His fur changed from an ashen shade to a brighter gunmetal color. He was a rather handsome wolf to say the least. The salt and pepper male envied his piercing eyes.

"Sir Mordred Pendragon, but just Mordred is fine." He responded respectfully to the darker clad male. Something about this male reminded him of the new breed of noblemen that were beginning to emerge at the end of King Arthur's reign: soft-paws they called them; dandies. Wolves born to families with long lines of warriors and knights, who ride off of their ancestors' success. He didn't want to fall into any biases, but something about him made Mordred draw the comparison.

"Are you new here?" He inquired, wondering if he would find any commonplace in between them in their newness in the Bay pack.

Krikor had just recently joined the Bay. The inky wolf was desperate for a new home with the winter approaching so harshly. The Bay was ruled by a wolf more fierce than Krikor himself. He was blunt and actually followed through with his threats. Krikor was more of a snake than anything. His venom took time to kill you while Ragnar would just rip your throat from your weak body and dance in your blood. The salt and pepper male feared his alpha.

"I am new here. I haven't spoken to many pack mates yet." The ebony male added nonchalantly. He had no idea if the ebony wolf before him was in the same boat. "Have you been here for awhile?" The male inquired in a strong tone.

"A few weeks, though I spent the first couple of days in rehabilitation." The knight recounted the long days of laying around, coughing up blood every few minutes. Those racking coughs had all but disappeared; if he exterted himself too much, a few specks of sanguine would pepper the ground and his lips. "Where do you hail from, Krikor?" He said as a means of steering the conversation along.

"I was born a few hundred clicks north from here. A place called the black hills. It's a lot different from here." Krikor replied with a sullen voice. The Black Hills is a landlocked territory filled with lush forests of evergreen and delicious trees. It was a place where the prey was plentiful and the wolves were strong. Their ability to withstand months of chilling snow and harsh conditions was what separated the weak from the strong.

The Black Hills was a place where the weak could not survive. The frail were not tolerated inside the packs. You carried your own weight or you were dropped and left to fend for yourself. "Where is it you are from Mordred." Krikor inquired to his packmate.

The knight had only known a few lands his whole life: Avalon, Orkney, the barbarian lands of the north, and his once kingdom, Albion. He was no seasoned wanderer, though he had his fair share of adventures outside of the dominion of Arthur. "I was born in the Kingdom of Orkney, but spent most of my life in the Kingdom of Albion, though I am not sure if it is called that name anymore, or if it is still a kingdom."

He had assumed that Albion was left in shambles after he killed his father, and he himself was presumed dead. The Queen and her lover, Du Lac, must have run off somewhere after Arthur died, and the rest of the knights must have fought brutally to claim whatever land they could. It may have been possible that one of their enemies may have taken over the land, either one of the Viking warlords, or Orkney's lords. Either way, Albion was not the same anymore. "Albion was large, and part of it bordered the sea. I was born by the sea, and held land near the coast. It must be why I lingered in this pack..."

Krikor had only heard of kingdoms from folk tales the elders would tell. The royal wolves who ruled over many other wolves. It wasn't like a pack, it was something bigger, and more powerful. Different. The salt and pepper male knew nothing of that life. He never came in contact with wolves from kingdoms so Kirkor was curious. "What was living in a kingdom like?" The male spoke kindly to his packmate.

The ebony wolf also had very little contact with bodies of water during his youth. He grew up next to streams and a large lake, but his pack hardly visited the lake. It was suppository haunted by the souls of the lost wolves. Krkor did not believe it but he chose to stay away from it. Just because it wasn't haunted did not mean it wasn't scary.

He had been in almost all levels of society in Orkney and Albion, from the page of a knight to the king himself. And there was one thing he found constant about being in a kingdom: he hated it. He hated the lack of movement, how people were given ranks based on who their family was rather than their merit, the political scheming to climb higher up the totem pole, the meaningless lives of those who spend their lives at the bottom. "It is complex and dangerous. Everyone is trying to climb higher. Some succeed, most fall. They will step on anyone and everyone to get to the top."

The former king sighed, thinking back to all the plots he had been involved in before the downfall of Albion. "I was actually the King of Albion for a time. I tried to change it and make it easier for everyone to live in," He involuntarily began explaining his life to his packmate, relieving himself of the guilt he had felt for a while. "I did some bad things to make it to the top, and I failed in my duty as king. A kingdom is not as perfect or good as its cracked up to be."