Gilded Bay where man cannot, love can; love will

Hoping for @Knaven and/or other Cairns

Blackrock had not been the destination Moorhen had in mind. Rather, she'd meant to travel to the island to see how Yuelong was fairing — and Aiolos in particular. And she'd thought, after that, that a trip down the coast might be nice.

But Ironclan had become of interest to her, so she would postpone a longer trip and instead enjoy a brief jaunt, stopping by the island on the way back home.

Now she stood in a separate bay, shaking out her pelt after a tiring swim and successful hunt. A red snapper flipped unhelpfully in her jaws, slapping her dark face with its tail. Moorhen growled at it, as if that would quell its struggles, and then focused on wading through the sand and tide to get to firmer ground. Here, she dropped her lunch and got a better grip, and bracing her paws against the beach, gave it a violent shake, then another. When she was still again, so was the fish, and the shewolf dropped it back on the beach to cast her burgundy gaze across the bay, searching for a nice place to eat.

The druid had grown tired of his father's bay. After staring into the sentinels from the beach, he'd breathed a single outward sigh to release the tensions of his frame and set a course down the coast. This journey took him away from Bijou and Lionel, but the earthy beast did not fret for his siblings. The sea could not take them, nothing on earth would. He had grown tired of their tiresome pranks, anyway. It would likely do him well to spend some time on his own, and he knew that when he grew bored of his excursion he could return to the others. 

From one bay to another, the druid trotted tirelessly. Knaven found very little about the unfamiliar terrain to be boring, but there were a few cuts of land that left him wanting. For what, he could not decide. When his sights fell on the chocolate frame and familiar mahogany glare, he all but cackled with delight. The pace of the wayfarer quickened until he had closed much of the gap that stretched between them and caught a glimpse of the real prize. The huntress was marked with the Cairns ribs. He knew he'd never met this she wolf before. A face like that wouldn't have easily been forgotten. Still, the familiar markings and gaze were enough to keep his attentions fully. 

You're a sight, the rogue called in a voice that was rugged and charming, with a bite of salt from the seaside.

The bay was plain enough that Moor couldn't really miss the appearance of another, even half-invested in her meal as she was. She prickled silently as he noticed her crouching there and changed direction to seek her out. Her hackles rose, but then settled as his youth became apparent to her — after two seasons spent guiding pups into adulthood, something about this age struck a powerful chord in the dark erne.

There was nothing else truly remarkable about the boy, to her. He was large, but without any years to back and harden him, Moorhen felt safe taking his friendly body language at face value. She stood tall and prickly to greet him, but her tail flickered half-heartedly in the air, as if to reassure him that she was not so scary as she might seem.

His accent, however, sent her thoughts spinning backward, trying to place where she'd heard it before. And his eyes, this close, made her blink in bemusement. There was something familiar about him, but he was too young by far for her to have met him here before, wasn't he?

A sight? she repeated in friendly confusion, forever puzzled by the various bits of slang that today's youth liked to spout at her. I am Moor, she corrected, and laid a large, sandy paw over her half-eaten fish. You are hungry? she guessed, something in her tone seeming to invite him to ask for scraps — suggesting she might be amenable to sharing. She could not imagine another reason for the young man's blatant interest in speaking to her.

When she spoke to him, he knew that there was something off – something not of his kind. But she was very much of his kind. The girl introduced herself as Moor, an awfully dismal thing to have named a child, he thought. But they all had that sort of ring to their names if he thought hard enough about it. At least, those of them who were named by their father. Sea-feeling and writhing with undertones, he couldn’t have done better if he tried. All of that and then she offered him a spot at her side, sharing her meal.
 
This fine woman was most certainly not of the Cairn culture.
 
“I’m Knaven Cairn,” the rogue called to her in tones that were devilishly sweet. “I’m assumin’ we have that in common.” Then a chuckle that felt warm like whiskey on the way out. It burned just the same too. The way he prowled forward was youthfully brazen, but Knaven did too hold something of a guarded nature. He was sly in a way that was fiendishly delightful and dangerous. “At least the Cairn bit, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that bastard named two of his kids Knaven. He seems the type to throw them out and hope that they stick,” the druid prattled on for a bit, watching her to see if any of it registered – seemed familiar.
 
“I wouldn’t mind at all sharin’ a meal, though.”

Moorhen blinked — the boy had succeeded in startling her with those words, and as he prattled on, they broke through her stupor and saw her tail wagging in earnest. 

Moorhen Cairn, yes, she said, sounding almost enthusiastic. Her ruddy gaze raked his form once more, greedily this time as she took in the little things that's first given her pause in new light. She was still listening, but hardly processing his words — it was, strangely, only just occurring to her that she might not be an orphan at all. That Skellige had lived to produce at least one more litter, if her hunch was a good one.

Cairn-Corten, she said, stepping back to allow the youth into her space and her lunch table. Cairn for my sire, Skellige. Corten for my family who tek me. I am guard, Akhlut for this family. But today, I am vacation.

She eyed him keenly, feeling some amout of misplaced pride for how tall and handsome he was — but she had had nothing to do with his upbringing, and that was a bit sad.

My babies, she said, and then paused to try and figure out a better way to say what she meant. My charges, they are just your age. því miður — I would have liked to see you grow.

Your før — Skellige? — He is well?

She was not sure why she asked. To be polite? Knaven was right — he hadn't wanted her, and she didn't think he would like her very much now, just from what Smokestep had said to her. But she liked Knaven already — his laughter, his biting voice, the endearingly cocksure way he carried himself despite the disparity in years and experience between them. 

She loved Coelacanth and the other Cortens, and she loved living among them, and the respect of her title — but she was not of them, the way this boy seemed so clearly to be of her. They had the same eyes! And the same dark fur, and the same seafaring physique. What would it have been like to be one of them?

It seemed that the information he’d provided was just enough to crack open the stranger’s guard; her tail wavered behind her and Knaven did not feel fear toward her. It was more than could be said for some of the Cairn family members who had remained behind in Warsaw. The family was a large one and the members of it were varied, though many of them who had remained true to the roots were sharp beasts who did not fear speaking their mind and proving their strength. They believed so wholly in the sea and what it would do for them, that the premise of anything else was insignificant.
 
Try arguing with someone like that.
 
The woman explained that her true name was Moorhen Cairn, but she had shortened her calling to Moor – something he felt like he preferred – and had adopted the surname of the family that had taken her in. He didn’t blame her, of course. He’d probably have traded the Cairn in his name for a piece of roadkill, but he wasn’t about to admit such things just yet. She had honored him, after all. Knaven didn’t understand why. Skellige was a frightful man and a dangerous fiend. It was remarkable that he had survived for that long and such good health.
 
“You seem to have had a good life, Moor,” the druid remarked to her, the salty tang of his voice seemed warmer than before but only slightly. “Skellige is well. He had found a mate during his time here and she remains his mate to this day. Our mother – my siblings and I – are Mayfair-Cairns, so I understand the sharing of names that you opted for,” the earthy beast informed her, offering such information easily. Deirdre had been an important member of her family and her pack, and her addition to Warsaw helped to fortify it beyond anyone’s imagining. She softened the harshness that was Skellige Cairn. She was his saving grace.
 
The young rogue drew his crown upward, peering at her with eyes that they shared. Deirdre had been much too young to birth her; she must have been from another woman. “Tell me, Moor. Who was your mother? Did you know her?” Knaven asked of the rib-marked stranger. The question was issued easily, even though it was weighted with the meaning behind it.

Scarred lips stretched unevenly over yellowing teeth at the boy's assessment of her. It was a funny thought, but considering her inauspicious beginnings, the world had been unduly kind to her. Or not, perhaps, the world.

I have been blessed to meet kindness when I have truly needed it, she told the boy, and in hard times, to have great pains to look back on, to know that I have survived worse. The words, chosen so careful, were said with even more care. She wondered if it was very hard to be Skellige's son, or if Knaven, being more worthy, had been cherished and coddled. It was hard to tell from what she'd learned of him thus far.

Meanwhile, he sought to learn more about her. Moorhen gave a firm shake of her head, discounting her mother as easily as the rest of the world had. She had no name, but she gave four of us to Skellige. Redshank, Sandpiper, and Kingfisher. She died on the day we are borned. She had been told, once, that she had not been born at all, but ripped from a dead woman's womb. However Knaven might have been raised, he seemed still too young to her to be told such a gruesome tale. But the brother of Skellige, Szymon, had a mate who tek us to breast. A witch called Doe. She was his second. She said that it is my fault he left us, and tek the other three with. I am disappointment to him, she said. I should be punish. And later, when I see Kingfisher again, and we are grown, he says this also.

She eyed the boy keenly, wondering if he, too, though she should be disappointed in herself. She had long since come to terms with her relationship — or lack thereof — with Skellige, but she did want to get to know this boy, if he was willing to spend time allowing her to do so.