Stavanger Bay you can call me monster

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Szymon, ever attuned to his eldest brother’s moods, fixed his sulphureous eyes obliquely on Skellige’s face with unmasked intensity as Skellige took his own inventory of Szymon’s relative condition. Szymon was, perhaps, a little worse for the wear — the Cairn brood was a frenzy of sharks with venomous fangs, born to a warring territory and bred for that violent art. The sigh that heaved from Skellige’s face in a remorseful rush was met with another pointed thrust of Szymon’s crown against the underside of that swarthy jaw. In Szymon’s eyes, there was nothing that needed to be forgiven or dwelled upon — his devotion was absolute, and all was well now.

The tension that seized, for the moment, the wrathful titan’s steely musculature begged a kneejerk response from his smaller sibling — casting his gaze away from Skellige’s face, Szymon scanned the area for any intruders or interlopers that might destroy the fierce contentment of this reunion. His hackles flickered to life along his spine like a cresting wave of cream and ginger as he flicked his tongue out to catch the tip of his nose. A familiar scent tickled the edge of Szymon’s senses with this close proximity to his brother — Donnelaith — and Deirdre — but he thought little of it as Skellige began to speak. Watching carefully as Skellige formed his query, grateful for the ease with which he could reply, Szymon slowly, definitively shook his head. His ears flatted with discontent, winging to each side of his head like a furry airplane at the mention of Ksenia before settling habitually back upon his skull in submission. With quiet clarity, he moved like a pointing dog — thrusting his scarred muzzle in the general direction of the mountain tarn where he’d seen her. The golden eyes registered surprise that Ishild was here — Szymon bore no ill will or outright terror toward his less physically demonstrative sibling.

Szymon was perhaps ill-suited for the violence and vehemence of his bloodline — yet had he been offered the opportunity to escape it, he would have passionately rejected it. Like an omega wolf, Szymon was content to remain on the fringes of pack life — a reluctant war machine who, despite his capabilities, would likely have been happier not knowing the metallic, uniquely acrid flavor of wolf blood — but the idea of being on the outside was terrifying. Ksenia was not known for her kindness and warmth anymore than Skellige himself was, and Szymon reasoned that if Skellige wanted her dead, die she would. He didn’t like the idea — but so devoted was the boy to Skellige that even the simple reason — “because I feel like it,” — would more than suffice.

With a frenetic twitch of his tail, Szymon uttered a low, rumbling growl, his golden eyes casting about the area with an eloquent turn of his head — and, after a beat, the guttural noise smoothed out into a deep-pitched query: well? What are we doing here? All around him was the scent of Skellige, and as his gaze flickered to one, then the other stone sentinel that clasped the bay in a lover’s embrace, he pushed his ears forward upon his skull, cupping them toward the eldest Cairn as though awaiting his verdict of the place. It was prime territory — but with such close proximity to Donnelaith, claiming the area promised to be a difficult, delicate task. Still, the Cairn brood tended to be selfish of the places and people they claimed — if Skellige wanted the bay, he could take it. It wasn’t like either Skellige or Szymon to wander endlessly — they needed roots, a place to guard and defend. It was what they were born for, after all.

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