Stavanger Bay you don't own me

sucessful famine hunt roll; pls excuse cruddy post, still trying to get a feel for stitch :0

She caught it! The seagull let out a loud, offensive wail as she trapped it's plump little body between her paws, her ears slicking back in resentment of the feathered beasts' protest, her face drawing back as she blinked away from it, letting out an yelp of pain when the feathered fiend pecked her! “Oww-ch,” She drew in a disgruntled hiss — because obviously she was not accustomed to her food being so salty. “Chillout with your saltiness.” Stitch drew, with a soft 'tch' noise. The instinct to loosen her grip and withdraw on the struggling avian was a strong one, but unfortunately for the seagull Stitch's primal survival instincts were much stronger. Figuring she'd talked to her food enough she grasped the seagull's neck betwixt her jaws and snapped it's neck with minimal effort, the bird's body going limp between her paws. She released her grasp upon it's neck and spit out a few feathers, scraping her tongue across her canines and staring down her muzzle as she tried to spit and blow off the feathers stuck to her lips.

“Gross, ugh,” She spoke to herself over the gentle roar of the ocean as the waves lapped up at the beach — where she lowered herself into a comfortable, sphinx-like position on the warm sand, just out of the ocean's reach. The ocean didn't bother her and truthfully, neither did seagulls. As a pup she'd had a seagull friend — Frank, which she realized happened to be all of Ikkuma's seagull regulars for there had been no way for her discern which one was the one she'd dubbed Frank and which one ...wasn't Frank. Her tolerance towards the dirty sea birds didn't extend, however, into eating them. She hated eating birds. Feathers were a pain in her butt and if given a choice she would have much rather had crab, elk or venison, in particular; but the trees were bare, like spindly, skeletal fingers and the ground was bare of grass and other foliage that attracted large prey. She could have snooped around for some crabs but Stitch wasn't used to going so hungry for so long and had done the thing she said she'd never do: hunt a bird for food because it was the first thing she'd seen.

Sorry Frank. For a moment she peered down at the bird's carcass sadly, though she was unsure if her sadness was for her puphood “friend” (if that word could even be used to describe it) or herself. How low the Kesuk-DeMonte had sunk; and sunk Stitch had: like the freakin' Titanic. She heaved a sigh before she began to tug mouthfuls of it's feathers with the intent of exposing it's flesh so she could eat it more easily.

Look ahead, look-astern
Look, the weather in the lee!
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we!

Maude sang raucously and jovially, despite the gnawing hunger that racked her senses. She was glad to be back in Saltwinter, though the distinct lack of locusts for her to chew on bothered her. Now she had to scavenge, not for herself, but for a group of others. The thought of sharing disgusted her, but it was what she had to give in return for the protection of the stronger, larger wolves there.

I see a wreck to windward,
And a lofty ship to lee!
A-sailing down along
The coast of High Barbary!

She sniffed the half-eaten shells of crabs and other crustaceans strewn about in the sand, the shanty reverberating across the sand. She looked up casually, but smirked at the sight of feathers dancing in the air around the wolf.

"O, are ye a pirate
Or a man o' war?" cried me. She called to the female, approaching with a crooked grin.

A first bite was taken into Frank — poor Frank! — and the plump bird tasted like a godsend despite her guilt at it since she had to make the resemblance between this random seagull and Frank. It would not enough to completely sate her hunger but it was better than starving and she was in no position to give up her kill out of misplaced and irrational guilt. A sound drifted over the gentle lull of the waves and Stitch's ears perked, a small bite taken from the bird's side. She chewed slowly, focused on the sound of what she discerned was singing. It was rowdy — obvious that the beast responsible for it had no will to hide it. Crystalline blue gaze lifted from the seagull's corpse to touch upon the dark furred beast that drew nearer.

A few more feathers were spit out and instinctively, instead of freezing and looking like a lost doe, she watched him with unbidden caution. Her flighty nature urged her to take flight and flee, presumably with the seagull corpse in her jaws, but she'd been here first and she was genuinely enjoying the beach. This streak of stubbornness kept the Kesuk-DeMonte rooted to the sand in which she stood upon. Admittedly, Stitch wasn't entirely sure what a pirate or a man o' war was but she assumed that it was apart of the song despite that the stranger had called out to her with the last words of his song.

“A siren,” She responded coyly, letting her imagination get the better of her for a moment. “I lure in weary and seasick travelers with my song and drag their unsuspecting souls into the depths of the sea.” It was just what it was: a story. She didn't sing and was pretty sure that she would drown before she reached “depths of the sea”. She hovered protectively over her kill, not habitually an aggressive creature but she knew she was easy to manipulate and without her father's overbearing protectiveness she understood that she was at a certain level of susceptibility given her easily trusting nature. “Maybe you're a siren,” She mused thoughtfully then. “That was a lovely song.” But in truth she thought siren's to be more alluring — which in and of itself probably automatically disqualified her. for the position.

She didn't hide her interest in the seagull, openly licking her lips at the smell of the fresh meat. Maude's eyes couldn't tear away from the feathers floating in the breeze, and she tried hard to keep her attention on the girl. Oooo~ A siren, eh? Wot're ye doin' so far from the water, lass? She teased, playing along for a while. The pirate stepped closer, locking her eyes with the girl's to try to distract her. She wasn't that subtle, however. 'Lovely'? Harr! Truly, then? 'aven't 'eard that word t'describe it.

With cutlass and gun,
O we fought for hours three;
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we.
The ship it was their coffin
And their grave it was the sea
A-sailing down along
The coast of High Barbary!

She sang the last phrase of the song, her slightly out of tune voice echoing once more on the lonely shore. Call that 'lovely' lass?

Stitch squinted at her companion when she noticed the male lick his jowls, his eyes trained on the seagull she guarded carefully. As if insinuating that she wasn't going to share — she did all the work and in this famine she wasn't going to risk her life to be the nice girl, no thank you — she inched forward a bit, hovering over the feathered fiend she'd begun to eat. No, not fiend. Frank. Or one of Frank's kids or...a doppelganger of Frank, maybe. “Sirens have to eat too,” She cooed with an errant tilt of her muzzle but she kept the stranger in her crystalline blue gaze nevertheless. The truth was she was only playing coy because she didn't want to share her meal, but in all reality, she trusted too easily. She knew it, had been told as much more times then she could count by her overprotective and easily worried parents.

“Your song is a bit morbid, I'll admit.” She giggled and offered an shrug of her slender shoulders; and without warning she drew in a deep breath and began to sing: “My name it is Maria, a merchant’s daughter fair, And I have left my parents and three thousand pounds a year, Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be, Who love a jolly sailor bold that ploughs the raging sea.” because she needed a to look authentic if she was going to stick with her "siren" story, after all. She had heard her mother sing it a few times though in truth Stitch had never bothered to ask where her mother had learned it.

'Tis a pirate song, love. Ye pretty sirens 'ave no ear fer such tripe. The wench watched as the "siren" filled her lungs and began to sing. The song was familiar to Maude; having lived among pirates her whole life, she knew a slew of sea-themed songs. This one, while not totally committed to memory like other, raunchier ones, did sound a bit jumbled to her. Didn't it end with something about 'Cupid'? 

Her ear flicked and the crooked smile twitched slightly as she realized she caught the so-called "siren" in a bit of a trap. Ye missed a few lines there, lass. Sirens, as this girl claimed to be, would know a whole song inside and out. 'ave ye been out o' t'water fer too long?

The male spoke that sirens had no need for a pirate's song. For a moment she struggled internally with his use of the word “pretty”. Sirens were fabled to be the most beautiful, it was true, that was all apart of their allure coupled with their songs but she was unsure if he meant in general or if he was calling her pretty. For a moment, it was enough to distract her but quickly she brushed it off, refocusing her attention upon the strange sailor she'd stumbled across with a demure shrug of her shoulders. “Do you think siren's swim around singing “Jolly Sailor Bold” all the time, huh? Maybe we want a mix track.” Stitch giggled at the absurdity of it. More than likely Sirens probably stuck to one song that had some sort of magical property to it. She really didn't know, she realized! She had spent her whole life on the coast torn between the Kesuk's worship of Atka and Sos and her father's scoff at anything magic and religious. Eager as Stitch had been to be Nevermore's favorite she had always held a deep fascination for mythology and magic.

“I know,” Stitch shrugged. “It's a long song.” She grinned with an easy smile. Perhaps he had managed to trap her, so to speak, but of course she wasn't really a siren. She was distinctly lacking a fish tail and was fairly certain that she couldn't breathe under water. “For a bit.” Stitch allowed coyly, with a demure rise and fall of her slender shoulders. “They call me Stitch; what do they call you?” She asked realizing that neither of them had exchanged the customary pleasantries yet.

Leaving behind the raucous barking of sea lions, a sound that Coelacanth found inexplicably and infinitely soothing, the atramentous Groenendael cross meandered south. Dainty, catlike paws sank into the coarse sand to be periodically engulfed by the tiny, lapping waves at the shoreline; she allowed the tip of her feathered tail to trail aimlessly behind her like a swirl of ink from an unseen quill. Tufted ears strained forward at the distant sound of two voices lifted in jovial song — like those hapless sailors, she was drawn toward the sound in an undeniable way. Cracked and excavated shells littered the sandy shore alongside fragments of fish bones; the famine had driven even inland wolves to eating as the coastal wolves did, scavenging what carcasses they could and fishing from the sea. Now and again, Coelacanth dipped her streamlined muzzle to nose at the debris, looking for treasure that might please @Amoxtli or stray morsels of edible material — but her search came up short as she caught sight of Stitch and Maude, as dissimilar as Coelacanth’s father and uncle were alike.

Cautiously, unsure of her welcome due to the unmistakable scent of fresh blood, Coelacanth approached — leaving plenty of breathing room in case the party was a private one. The ghostly white female — lissome and long-limbed, with captivating cerulean eyes — seemed to be guarding a kill, and although the mood seemed generally cordial, there was an underlying thread of tension that bound the pair together. Coelacanth couldn’t vouch for the longevity of that genial veneer. In any case, it seemed that the singing had stopped, much to the inky halfbreed’s great disappointment. Casting her attention to the male, a curiously ragged creature with sepia-toned, unkempt fur and a slim, shapely frame, Coelacanth noted the intensity of Maude’s smouldering gold eyes and paused — averting her eyes automatically despite the neutrality of the territory. She hadn’t explored far enough to the northeast region of the Sequoia Coast to recognize his pack scent, but being smaller than most of the wolves she met had heightened in Coelacanth her innate inclination to be polite and self-effacing.

Tufted ears skimmed back against Coelacanth’s narrow skull as her feathered tail hung loose and relaxed between her slim hocks, its damp sumi-e brush tip wavering with unobtrusive friendliness. Seablue eyes half-closed as a shy smile touched the corners of her slender muzzle,and a friendly whuff slipped airily from her lips.

“They call me Stitch,” the lovely she-wolf was saying presently to her dusky counterpart, “what do they call you?”

The words mix track were strange on the pirate wench's ears, but then again, a lot here on the northern shore was. Maude shrugged, knowing that the game was soon up. She had no interest in the authenticity of this wench's Siren status, but the bird that she had caught. Any more delay wouldn't feed her grumbling stomach. Name's Maude. She smiled, her eyes sliding over to the black wolf that approached them and whuffed softly.

Ahoy there, mate! Maude flashed another disarming smile, looking over the wolf-hybrid curiously. Her gaze focused intently on the tufts decorating her ears. Nice decorations ye've got there!

He gave a name at her bequest. Maude. In their exchange Stitch had almost forgotten — alas that was not unusual for the flighty Kesuk-DeMonte — his interest in her kill. Still, she had no inclinations of sharing, because there was something in his doubloon like gaze that whispered of trouble to Stitch. The exchange of names was almost enough to consider them more than strangers and she almost cursed herself for letting her tendencies at being easy to manipulate. If not for the chuff of the stranger, a few moments and words exchanged later and Stitch might have been willing to share Frank with the one that called himself Maude. As it was, her muscles froze as the chuff reached her heads and her head whipped in the direction of the ebony cloaked enchantress that had joined the scene, Stitch's eyes wide and doe-like, sinking into that usual “deer caught in headlights” look she had unintentionally perfected during the short span of her life.

She tucked her head towards Frank's corpse, fidgety, ready to grasp it and bolt. One was bad enough but two was like a party that Stitch hadn't asked for. Yet, the noise that had slipped from the ebon stranger, coupled with the fact that there was nothing hostile that Stitch could see, appeared to be ...amiable. Maude did not share in Stitch's flightiness, it would seem, for he called out to the other woman without trepidation. She could make a run for it now, her mind hissed at her. Run, fool! Her flight instincts encouraged her, while the sailor was distracted by the newcomer; yet to Stitch's incredible discredit she was innately curious, fascinated perhaps by the hybrid woman who was a picture of beauty unlike anything Stitch had seen before.

“Ahoy there, mate! Nice decorations ye’ve got there!”

The “decorations” in question popped to attention like twin exclamation points as Coelacanth cupped her ears to capture the exuberant, roughhewn greeting. Ahoy there, mate! she thought to herself, wholly intrigued by Maude’s rollicking manner of speech. Ahoy there! The feathered length of her tail began to wave, propelled by a tenuous current of answering enthusiasm; a bashful dip of the girl’s muzzle greeted the owl-eyed pirate’s disarming smile.

Carefully turning her attention toward Stitch — the sheepdog cross could not remain impervious to the tensing of lithe muscles or the wide-eyed way her arrival had been regarded — Coelacanth lowered herself into a sphinx-like position and fixed her seablue gaze on the faraway horizon. She was eloquently disinterested in the female’s meal and said so with her patently distracted body language. Lowering her slender muzzle, she dug a small trench to tuck her paws in, then covered them up with small tosses of coarse sand. Sand dappled the bridge of her nose when she finished her play, begging a soft, soundless sneeze that cleared her nostrils of the pesky granules.

Maude had spent enough time chattering away with the "siren", and she saw no better time to wrest her intended prize from the flighty girl than now. While Stitch was hunkered over the seagull's body, her attention was firmly on the hybrid form who sat silently, though with a pleasant and disinterested expression on her face, partially buried in the sand. Maude smiled towards the silent woman, then focused her eyes on the seagull, then Stitch, then the seagull again. Ahh, 'tis a pirate's life fer me. She murmured to herself before lunging towards the seagull formerly known (unbeknownst to her) as Frank, her slavering jaws intent on sinking into the feathered flesh and holding tight as the rest of her body made a break for it.

Trying to close up some threads. [scoots out of here]

When it became clear that the situation would soon become dire, Coelacanth hopped lithely to her paws — this was indeed a wilder land than she was accustomed to, and although she would likely feel guilty over this bit of cowardice later, she judged it time to flee the scene. Backpedaling with a low whine of apology to Stitch, her eyes grazing Maude to remember for all of her days the face of the thief, the sheepdog cross made her way back to the safety of her brother.

Finishing thread since Stitch is inactive

No retaliation from either wolf met the woman as she fled towards the Sound, the seagull tight in her jaws as she cackled internally. The pirate felt no guilt over the theft, nor no thoughts of the consequences that stealing with a witness or two would bring. She ran and ran until she was far enough to enjoy a small bite of the avian creature, her stomach gurgling contently as she swallowed her stolen goods. Once she was content, she travelled back home; to the victor goes the spoils.