Sea Lion Shores the halls of our fathers

Technically in Stavanger Bay, but I couldn't find the little tag for it. edit: jk it's claimed now and I'm silly. I guess she's just outside of the neutral zone then and getting angry at Sea lion Shores.

Nostalgia was a weighty beast, roaring as loud as the ocean. The tide was high, the white caps of roiling waves a clear sign of rough seas. It was familiar. It was strange. She cursed her memory, which knew of this place, but only in the vaguest senses. She got snatches of her childhood when she wanted to immerse herself in it again.

Ragna grew frustrated, devastated. Why had she left?

Ragna grew angry. Charon had filled her head with foolish stories, and she was a fool for chasing them. And Charon had abandoned this place, where her roots dug deep, and now her true home had been taken over by strangers. Her anger grew until it was its own beast, one that wished to contend with the very power of the sea.

The water was cold, waves splashing up her legs to her chest. She wouldn't go any deeper, already she was being buffeted back by waves. The air was redolent with salt spray, she tasted it on her lips. It would bury itself in her coat and stay for days. Good. She dunked her head, let the water drown out the noise of the surface. The pressure on her ears and eyes felt good, and though her anger did not abate, it cooled. She pulled her head out of the water and looked out across the sea.

Szymon, too, was filled with bad temper. His day had been spent digging dens, checking the pack reserves, and freshening borders. It was tedious work and much of his time had been spent inland, away from the Sea that drew him now to Her welcoming arms. “What am I to do?” he thought desperately, feeling the tension in his muscles relax minutely as coarse granules sank beneath his paws. Tipping his skull slowly from side to side, he sought to relax the cramped kink of his body, for it had curled into its old bad habits — a submissive slink, angular shoulders hunched with distress due to the exaggerated curve of his spine. As his paws sank into the softer sand that tumbled in the lapping waves at the shallows, he shook himself vigorously and resumed a prouder stance, as relaxed and natural as he could make it.

“You are not the same as you were,” he chided himself, allowing the breakers to swallow up his scarred forelegs and the slope of his black-banded ribcage. With a push of his paws, he allowed the Sea to carry him deeper, the current pushing him north toward the pinnipeds’ rocky domain. He fought the current, swimming against it, wary of the riptides that could kill a lesser beast — and only when his wounded right haunch began to tingle with fatigue did he succumb to Her will and drift toward the shore. He was several meters away from the strange female when he washed up on the beach, just in time to see her head break surface as she gazed out over the ocean.

Uttering a low, guttural chuff of greeting pitched to carry despite the cacophony of the barking sea lions, he wondered what secrets the Sea told this stranger — if She spoke to her at all. The tip of his tail twitched as it always did with nervous energy but his posture was guardedly loose — the set of his narrow head remained just a few inches above the relaxed slope of his shoulders. Though he readied himself for an ambush as he always did, Szymon met the stranger without rancor. The pale-furred female was saved from looking like Szymon’s detested sister by a dusting of pale brown on her ears, paws, and tail; she was lean and small, perhaps somewhat of a size with Doe’s warrior friend Lagertha. Mindful of that botched meeting — although he still thought himself blameless for the flighty girl’s abrupt departure — as well as the ever-present stutter that he loathed, the golden-eyed Cairn kept his foray into common speech brief: “Are y-y-you well?”

A little scatterbrained so not the best post ever lmao.

The questions ate at her. Where were her brothers? Her mother? Her family? It was possible they were dead, but she couldn't find it in her to mourn yet. She was made from sterner stuff than that. And she had survived on her own. Why not them? No, they had to be alive, because they were sons of Ragnar. In their mother they had a Shieldmaiden to protect them, Charon to guide them.

But Charon had guided them wrong. What convinced him to leave their ancestral home?

An ear flicked at the announcement of another's presence and she turned to face him. He was a lean, hard-bitten wolf, but Ragna didn't see the need for caution. If it came to it, she thought she could take him in a fight. In the mean time, he seemed amiable enough. She had questions, now, and perhaps he could answer them.

Mindful of rocks and lumbering sea lions, she closed the distance between them, splashing out from deeper waters. The water still rolled over her paws, enfolding them in a cold comfort. "I'm fine," she said, careful to keep her emotion out of her tone and failing. Ragna was not one for words, for they often betrayed her. They were graceless on her tongue and that, too, frustrated her. But she had to ask, because she had to know. "Do you live there?" she asked first, jerking her head in the direction of the Bay's calmer waters. If he was just a visitor to the shore, he was of no use to her.

As the strange female regarded Szymon, so too did he regard her — her eyes, bright blue and wary, were a refreshing change from the colorless pools of his sister’s loathed visage. She splashed into the shallow water at the shoreline, closing the distance between them; he was not surprised or made uncomfortable by her nearness, but his stance shifted slightly to accommodate for the change. He balanced his weight evenly between his legs, feeling the shift of sand beneath his webbed toes, and knew that the close proximity to the Sea would lend him an advantage should the situation go awry. “I’m fine,” the female said, but though she attempted to keep emotion from sharpening her tone, it was evident even to Szymon’s tattered ears. The Cairns did not speak of emotion and so he did not offer her questions or comfort; he merely accepted her statement with a quiet nod of understanding.

“Do you live there?” The blue-eyed girl jerked her head toward the bay and Szymon watched her fixedly, his sulphureous eyes keen as he nodded again, his narrow skull dipping affirmatively. In case his gesture was not clear, though, he verbalized his response: “Yes.” His response was simple, even stoic, but a thrum of pride sang briefly within his bass timbre. Still, he wondered whether the place was significant to the wanderer. “Y-You are f-f-familiar w-with the b-b-bay,” he guessed, not phrasing it as a question, tattered ears thrust forward intently to catch her reply. “Who are y-y-you?”

The sea lapped at her paws comfortingly. Though he had a strange way of speaking, Ragna liked the stranger, who smelled of the sea and did not ask many questions. Other wolves would pry, hearing the bladed edge of her first response. Other wolves would tread on boundaries in some misguided attempt to provide comfort. But not this golden-eyed stranger, and Ragna could appreciate that, in a way.

A nod, a response, and Ragna frowned. She tried to quash the first rumblings of rancor, for rampant emotion could ruin her quest for more information. The note of pride with which he affirmed her suspicions was like kindling, and she was unable to douse it completely. "I am Shieldmaiden. I am the daughter of Ragnar, who ruled the Bay as Jarl before you and your ilk sought to claim it," she said, gloating and triumphant. As a proud beast, she found herself most eloquent when speaking of her family's greatness. Her claim to the territory was far greater than that of whatever squatter had proclaimed himself Alpha there. Still she knew better than to vilify a pack's leader before one of its members, much less within sight of the place itself.

Irritation flickered, causing the gold of Szymon’s eyes to blaze briefly with a hard-edged glint, but soon died. He shifted his sharp, angular shoulders — wondering, as Skellige often did, what would become of the Warsaw Islands now that the Cairn brood had vacated them. Rather than become frustrated with the female for her gloating tone, the black-banded bay wolf chuckled unrepentantly — perhaps this Ragnar had ruled the bay in times past, but now was Skellige’s age. The Sea had given this land to the eldest Cairn and he would not easily relinquish his claim. “J-Jarl?” repeated the boy with a measure of uncertainty; his tongue could not twist the single syllable with the same exotic dexterity that this Shieldmaiden’s could. Drawing air into his lungs, Szymon exhaled with deliberate slowness, preparing himself for the tangle of syllables to follow. “Th-The Lev — L-Leviathan r-r-rules here now,” he informed her quietly.

Pausing to let his possibly controversial statement sink in, allowing the blue-eyed girl to accept or deny it at will, “Y-Y-You are p-proud,” Szymon observed without rancor. He didn’t exactly mind it. She spoke of her sire as one day Skellige and Deirdre’s children would speak of the Leviathan — with pride that lingered just this side of arrogance for the legacy their father had created. Szymon could appreciate it, for bearing the weight of the Cairn name was a source of great pride for him — even if he was largely recognized as the softest of his siblings. “Sh-Shieldmaiden,” he mused aloud, one tattered ear fanning out toward the Sea as if she drew his attention with a secret, “h-h-have you s-s-seen b-battle?” Too, he wondered: “Y-Your father, d-does he y-y-yet l-live?” If so, why was the pallid jarlsdottir so far from home?

you're getting all my awkward posts as I work my way into her characterization, lmao

Though unused to getting what she wanted, her ability to hold herself with a fierce pride usually granted her the benefit of being taken seriously- at least at first. So when the other began to chuckle, she heard it as a snigger. "Why are you laughing?" Ragna demanded, her ears drooping in embarrassment. She could only imagine that the wolf was laughing at her. "I am serious. Other wolves would call him Alpha. That is Jarl." The idea that the banded wolf only found the word amusing was a small comfort. Oldest of her brothers, the title was her birthright. At least, it should have been.

"Who is the Levi-Leviathan?" she asked, the strange word unwieldy to her tongue. The squatter king that claimed her home, no doubt. Again, she kept her poison to herself.

Of course she was proud, she had every reason to be. Her father had been great, she was sure of it. And now, as the eldest of his children (that she knew of), his legacy was hers to carry. A weighty thing it was, but she longed for the burden.

She listened to him try her title with patience, a patience not often afforded to her when she struggled with words. Shieldmaiden. "It means that I protect," she informed him. It was a role she had had to grow into, a title she was still trying to live up to. "I have," Ragna answered. She was a blooded warrior, but had yet to kill. He didn't need to know that. And now he asked about her father, and she said without grief, "he is dead. He feasts now at Odin's table."

Not awkward at all! I love her!

The bright-eyed female grew immediately defensive, demanding to know the catalyst of Szymon’s untimely laughter, but he found it difficult to articulate precisely why he found the situation humorous. The droop of her ears conjured a rare measure of compassion in the black-banded boy, and he hastened to reply: “I know,” he assured her, when she pointedly told him she was not speaking in jest. “I am n-n-not l-laughing at y-you. Or y-your father.” His rich bass timbre, marred though it was by the stutter, was as quiet and steady as he could make it. “If you were m-m-me, m-maybe you would l-l-laugh,” he stated, “and if I w-were you, l-likely I w-would not.” His words were clumsy, but a shift of his sharp, angular shoulders attempted to shrug off the whole thing. He could easily imagine being in the Shieldmaiden’s position; if he returned to Warsaw and saw it inhabited by lesser wolves, he would have been livid — and they would have laughed. It was the way of things. The conquerors laughed and those who had come before them scorned.

When she stuttered, he eyed her keenly, unsure as to whether she mocked him or not, but she seemed earnest enough. “L-Leviathan is our Jarl,” he explained. “Alpha. My b-brother, S-Skellige. I am Szymon.” He listened attentively, without demur or interruption, as she explained her title — for it was a title, it seemed, and perhaps not a name. “H-Have you a n-n-name, Sh-Shieldmaiden, d-d-daughter of R-Ragnar?” he asked, his tongue flicking to moisten his salt-crusted lips. She spoke of battle in a calm, clinical way, that telltale pride still lacing her staunch tone, and spoke of her father in the same manner — devoid of grief, borne within an overarching theme of bloodpride. He filed away the knowledge that the former king was dead, keeping it safe in case Skellige needed to know of possible usurpers and the like. “Odin,” he repeated the unfamiliar word. “Odin is…y-y-your g-god?” he guessed.

here have a shit post lmao

The assurance that he was not laughing at her calmed her anxious fidgeting, and her fears were dispelled when he showed empathy. The effort he put in to reassuring her made her certain of his intent, and she felt a certain peace while interacting with him that put her at ease. Often she felt embarrassed when speaking with others, her own difficulties speaking at times making her self-aware. You are right, she managed, still bitter.

Ragna thrust her ears forward when he began to speak of the Leviathan, thirsty for knowledge about the wolves that had overtaken her home. That she spoke to the Leviathan's -the king's- brother was no surprise to her, but she filed it away as useful. When asked, she provided her name. Ragna.

Odin is the god of my father, she said. She had no god, herself, but believed that every god and every pantheon existed for those who worshipped them.

Lies! It was not a bad post at all! This one is very, very short, sorry! >o<

“Ragna” was infinitely preferable to “Shieldmaiden” for the young, stuttering wolf, and a rare smile flitted roguishly across his scarred lips as he repeated it. “Ragna,” he tested out slowly, the syllables falling so deliberately from his lips that the stammer had no time to take hold. He had expected, in all honesty, to dislike the female or be disliked by her — the Cairns were not skilled friend-makers, after all — but he found he enjoyed her company. “Y-Your f-f-father’s god,” he repeated carefully, with a thoughtful nod of his head. “You d-d-do not w-worship the s-same?” The thought of not worshipping the Sea as his family did was completely alien to the boy — it was the most constant, reassuring thing he knew.

With the exchange of names complete, Ragna felt comfortable stepping forward. She rounded him slowly, so as to show she meant no harm. Ragna sniffed as his flank, identifying and filing away his scent, the scent of the new Bay wolves. She nodded at the repetition of her name, uttered notably without any stuttering.

Szymon asked about her own worship, and Ragna hesitated. She was unsure how to explain her beliefs, which were vague and only existed as a duality. She was agnostic and gnostic at once, believing that all gods existed but that there was not one for her. It would require more verbal agility than she had. I do not, she said simply. She thought of the wolves in the copse and their foreign god, Molech. Call me heathen, but there is no god for me.

Szymon’s hackles bristled automatically as Ragna approached him, but he allowed the female to draw near, sniffing at his flank to capture the pack scent of the Blackrock warhounds. It gave him an equal opportunity to take in and catalogue her scent, their nearness allowing him to breathe the spice of her through the overarching odor of brine. He listened and watched as she responded to his query, and his golden eyes briefly widened in surprise before they half-closed with acceptance. Some of the Cairns’ enemies had worshipped gods of their own, and perhaps some had even followed the will of the Sea even as the Cairns themselves did, but Szymon had never gotten into a lengthy discussion with them about anything, let alone religion. Though he felt a pang of regret that Ragna was not blessed as he was, he had no reason to condemn her for her choices. He simply could not understand believing something different than the rest of her family, being from a very pious family himself.

Again surprised by her words, he turned to her with a keen expression. “Y-You sh-should not b-b-be alone,” he chided her, but his words, gruff as they were, were well-intended. He disliked the idea of the female roaming around without a pack or a god to guide and strengthen her steps. “Have you s-s-siblings?” he asked of her. “Allies?” Though he could not say in good conscience that he cared about Ragna on a personal level, Szymon desired the reassurance that she had somebody in her life. Being separated from Skellige and the Sea had nearly driven the black-banded boy mad — and unbeknownst to him, a similar scenario had nearly achieved the same with his Chosen One — and he did not wish to see Ragna devoid of her plucky temperament, avid intelligence, and general good sense.

Once, her lack of piety concerned her. It hadn't felt right to worship, but she knew that her father had done so with fervor. Or, rather, she imagined he had. All of her information about him was second hand, gleaned from wolves who had known him briefly. For a time she had been troubled, for she couldn't find it in her heart to worship Odinn nor any other god of any other pantheon. Yet as with all things, she had found peace eventually.

Szymon expressed sincere concern for her, and Ragna was touched. Though he just as easily could have perceived her as an enemy to his brother and his pack, she was glad that they could speak civilly. She, too, could have regarded him as an enemy, but in her mind she held him blameless for the usurpation of her homeland. I am not alone, she told him. At the very least she had the Malkaria. I have allies. Family. My brothers live in these wilds still. Did they, though?

“I am not alone.”

Ragna spoke of allies and family — specifically, brothers — and Szymon’s stiffened posture relaxed slightly at the odd sense of relief he felt. It contented him to know that the blue-eyed girl was not completely alone in these wilds, though he made a mental note to inform Skellige about the former Jarl’s children, lest they raise an army to reclaim the place of their birth. Little did he know that he had already met and hunted with one of them — he and Charon had not delved deeply into conversation, for Szymon had been in a terribly foul mood and they had both been preoccupied by the chase.

A sudden, violent clench of Szymon’s empty stomach reminded him that he had not stopped to eat, but he was enjoying the strange female’s company and did not wish to end their conversation. Judging that now was as good a time as any to make his proposal, “Y-You were b-b-born by the Sea,” he remarked, fixing her with a suddenly mischievous glance. “Do you f-f-fish like a sea w-wolf?” Now the growl of his stomach became audible, and he grinned at Ragna without reservation or shame. Hunger was a natural, normal thing, and it was not bad manners in his book to have an outward display of it.

The knowledge that she had a home and allies in the Malkaria had bolstered her, and reaffirming it out loud buoyed that comfort. I am not alone, she had said, and knew it to be true. There would always be a place for her in this world.

Szymon's stomach growled, and Ragna stifled a snicker. She took his question and his mischief as a challenge, though a friendly one. One that she was up to. Rather than answer, Ragna nipped his shoulder playfully and ran past him towards the water. A few lounging sea lions protested her sudden appearance and shifted away, but she was far enough from them that they did not feel the need to defend themselves. She raced along the shore to rockier shallows, which were more likely to hold fish, and then looked to see if she had won her impromptu race.

Sizzle doesn’t know how to play very well. ;-;

The wolves of these wilds appeared, for the most part, to be far more tactile than Szymon would ever be completely comfortable with; he controlled the baser instinct — the monster’s instinct — to lash out at Ragna for her playful nip and merely snaked out his narrow skull, snapping harmlessly at air with a mild-mannered expression as he put on the gas and sped after her. He moved comfortably on the sand — his long legs were literally made for it — but his heart wasn’t in the race. Competitiveness was for Szymon an ugly, unpleasant thing, and even flippant games such as these — impromptu ones that wrested a superlative title from one wolf to bestow it upon another — saw fit to agitate him. Instead he focused on the joy of running alongside a spirited, pretty girl and the promise of food; this melted the apprehension away, and he kicked sand up like a spirited bronco as he reached the pools just a second or two behind her.

“F-Fast,” he observed appreciatively. He wondered if she could also fish as the Cairn children did, every last one of them taking to water like a barracuda. After a brief appetizer, perhaps he’d show off his own skills. Settling down to give her the first opportunity to strike, “Wh-What are your p-p-plans, Ragna?” he boldly questioned, wondering whether she’d settle down further inland or join one of the other coastal packs. He didn’t think she’d want to join the Blackrock warband, given the fact that Skellige would never, in her eyes, compare to the legacy her father had left behind. She would not be able to respect him the way Szymon and Doe did. His golden eyes fixed vividly on the swimming shadows that waited in unsuspecting whorls, eagerly licking at his lips as he waited his turn.

rolled to see if she caught the feesh

With her victory in mind, Ragna sought to show off further, intent on impressing Szymon. She took to the rocks with grace and ease, perched above the shallows. She spent some time in patient, watchful silence, biding her time until a fish darted into her path. Finally, she struck, thrusting her head into the water. For a moment all she could taste and feel was the cold salt water, until her jaws snapped shut around her prey. Ragna reared her head from the water, hopping off of the rocks and to the hard, wet sand of the intertidal. The fish snapped back and forth furiously as Ragna blew salt water from her nose.

She dropped her catch to the ground and, with a great crunching sound, ceased its struggling. Ragna then looked to Szymon, grinning cheekily, her eyes flashing a challenge. I have found a pack, she said. We are small. Our numbers will grow. She thought of Eshamun's children, whose fate she was yet unaware of. And then, with little ceremony, Ragna tore into her meal, though she watched to see how Szymon would fare with his catch.

Szymon watched with a mixture of impatience and bemusement as Ragna thrust her muzzle into the water and came up with a fish wriggling in her jaws; he was indeed impressed, as she had meant for him to be. “A s-s-sea wolf after all,” he drawled teasingly, though he hadn’t truly doubted her claim. The Cairn brood was not known for its social graces, and he meant his jest to be complimentary. The challenge in her bright eyes was something he could appreciate, though catching fish from the shallows in this way was something akin to fishing from a plastic kiddie pool for a Cairn. Golden eyes settled sharply upon the pool for a prolonged beat before Szymon lunged, his jaws gaping the moment they broke surface and snapping down on the silvery body of a fish in a whipping whirlpool of bubbling foam. Water streamed from the corners of his jaws and between his teeth as he bit down harder to secure his kill; he settled down a few feet away from Ragna and crunched his meal in a manner of bites and gulps. He had grown up having many meals taken from him and had learned to bolt his food without truly tasting it — now, it seemed, he knew no other way of eating.

Licking the scales from his lips, he looked wistfully at the pool again, wondering if it would be terribly uncouth to catch and eat a second one. His attention, however, was diverted when Ragna spoke of the pack she was helping to found. “W-W-With your b-brothers?” he questioned, and without waiting for an answer, he asked another. “W-Where?”

100th post for you!

Ragna watched him hunt with sharp eyes, paying keen attention to every move he made. There was much to be learned in observation, and she would glean what she could from Szymon. For though they were both raised by the sea, he was older, and her wanderings had taken her away from the depths. She took his teasing for what it was, just friendly ribbing. Let's see what you can do, then, she urged him. And she watched, ignoring her kill to watch him churn the waters and capture his fish.

A sea wolf after all, she mocked, but not unkindly. She grinned, mischief flickering in her gaze, then bent her head to eat. She did not miss the way he wolfed down his meal, but thought little of it. Defensive eating was the way of some wolves, particularly those that were perpetually at the bottom of the totem pole. She was more leisurely about it, and was still picking at the bones of her fish when they resumed their conversation. No, she said. She still did not know where her brothers were, but the idea of starting a pack with them thrilled her. The four of them at the helm of a pack of vikings! They could do anything like that. As it was, she saw no harm in telling him where the Malkaria resided. There is a Copse to the south. They are peaceful wolves.

Suddenly she stood, deciding she wanted another fish. I will hunt again, she declared, leaving behind the bones of her fish and striding back towards the rocks.

[treasures number one hundred]

Szymon endured Ragna’s teasing with a halfhearted snap of his fangs in her general direction, the relaxed slope of his angular shoulders and neutral set of his tattered ears bespeaking the harmlessness of his good-natured gesture. Despite their initial differences, she had proven to be a genial cohort — he found he liked her company very much — and just like that, the golden-eyed, golden-hearted boy added her to his short list of friends. He was not overly shocked at the fact that she did not wish to join a pack with her siblings; given the choice, Szymon would not have joined forces with any of his, minus Skellige. He merely nodded, one tattered ear fanning toward the south, followed by the tilt of his muzzle, as though he could see from where he stood the place that would house her. “F-Far from here?” he questioned, and one would swear his guttural bass timbre carried a note of wistfulness. Whether it was because he imagined his own plight, a sea wolf far away from his goddess, or because he would miss the female’s company was unbeknownst even to him.

He watched avidly as the blue-eyed girl rose, announcing her intention to hunt again as she made for the rocks. “I have f-f-fished your w-way,” he challenged her boldly. “Will you t-t-try it my way?” He rose, shaking the sand from his fur, and took several steps toward the ocean itself with an inviting glint in his eye.

Again she snickered when he snapped at her, taking it for the good-natured jest that it was. She felt at ease with him, finding them both favoring brevity in their speech. They were similar in demeanor as well, but not so similar that their personalities clashed. Ragna was pleased to have found an ally within the borders of the bay, even if she felt he did not deserve the land. He was a sea wolf through and through, and if any were to squat in her home, she could almost find peace that it was him. Not so far, she said. The journey was not impossible to make, and in the coming days and weeks she would venture forth several more times.

His challenge gave her pause. She turned away from her rocks and gave him a questioning look. Show me, she said, accepting his challenge. Ragna followed after him, curious to see how he preferred to hunt.

Szymon moved with uninhibited eagerness toward the shoreline where they’d met, plunging into the shallow water without hesitation. With Ragna at his side, his large, webbed paws cleaved the waves, soon bringing him to a point where he could not easily touch down upon the sand. “Mark your p-place,” he said quietly, his nervous energy swallowed up by his goddess. “We C-Cairns swim with eyes open; the sting of s-salt will soon fade.” He dipped his head below water, auriferous eyes blinking gingerly as he adjusted to the saltwater, and spotted a school of juvenile lingcod. “Bluefish,” he said, gesturing with a quirk of his muzzle as he blew seawater from his nostrils — politely angling his head away from Ragna to avoid spraying her in the face. “Look d-down there and t-t-tell me if you see them.”

Ragna followed him fearlessly. She was a powerful swimmer, a sea wolf in her own right, and she was right beside Szymon as he treaded out to beyond where either of them could walk. Though she was not one to let the salt sting her eyes, she was unafraid, and when he told her to look she did. Ragna inhaled deeply, then plunged her face into the water. Eyes closed, the let the pressure of the water on her be the only sensation for a moment, then she opened her eyes. It stung, and she blinked rapidly. In between blinks, though, she saw the fish. They were blurry, but they were there, shadows in the water. Her head emerged and she nodded. I do, said Ragna.

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Szymon watched with approval as Ragna maneuvered with powerful sureness in the water and winced with sympathy as she blinked away the sting of salt. “Over t-t-time you will g-get used to the f-feeling,” he reassured her. The Cairn brood had grown wholly immune to it through the years and he had no reason to doubt that Ragna would be any different. “Watch how the waves m-m-move them,” he advised. “All f-fish are different — grown b-bluefish are not g-g-good for practice. F-Fast and aggressive, like y-you and me.” He grinned. “These are y-young.” He struck out for deeper water, motioning that the blue-eyed girl do the same, and nodded toward shore. “The adults churn the shallow w-w-water during frenzies,” he said, “and a c-c-careful wolf can t-toss them onto shore. Your p-paw, not your m-muzzle.” Their bites were quick and sharp, and it was unwise to put one’s face that close to the water. Even edging too close on the reef could be a stupid decision for a beginner. Szymon said as much, then nodded toward the lingcod school. “Use the w-waves,” he advised. “Watch.”

Szymon watched the incoming waves, his muzzle dipping below surface to check repeatedly the location of his fish — and when they swam under an outcropping of rock, he swam over it to hide his shadow. Then, using a wave, he rode the current and swept in with a powerful thrust of his body, scattering the school and coming up with a fish in his jaws. It flopped, slapping him in the face with its tail, and he clenched down to make his kill — giving Ragna time to attempt a catch of her own if she wished.

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i keep rolling for her success/failure and she's just super wolf lmao

As they tread water, Szymon encouraged her and gave her instructions. They bobbed easily in the waves, and Ragna found that the salt was easily blinked away, though the sting remained for moment longer. She nodded, determined, and followed him closely, powerful legs churning the water and carrying her along just behind him.

Szymon struck with the waves, and Ragna waited just long enough to see him come up successful before she, too, dove under the water. A wave caught her and she surged forth into the school of panicked fish. Her vision beneath the water was still blurry, and she found herself blinking instinctively, making it difficult to see. But in the end Ragna swept a clumsy paw out and caught a slim fish. She used her loose grip to pull it towards her muzzle, then closed her mouth around it and emerged. Splashing and snorting, she burst from the water, her hard-won prize clasped tight in her jaws. She made a loud, pleased noise around it and began to paddle towards the shore, eyes still stinging.