Stavanger Bay you can call me monster

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The Cairn children were a strange group. Their entire family, for that matter, was a group that was not too prominently typical in any aspect of their lives. The blood that coursed through them also coursed through many of the wolves on Warsaw, but it was only those who carried their name who were smiled on. In the eyes of the others, Bronislav and Serafiem had done exceptionally well in their offspring. They had produced Skellige as their first born. From the moment he had opened his tiny maw and cried to the world, they had assigned him the ruler of the dredge, and he had done well in their tasks. Jaglon had been assigned as a reefer, and when Ksenia had finally emerged from the womb, all of the wolves of Warsaw had held their breath at the sight of her. Even after she had grown into an adult, they had marveled still. Their second litter had offered the islands more leaders for their roles. Ishild was a merciless breaker. Jagoda an angler that could not be matched by any other. Leokadia was adaptable but found her passion as a nautilus. And then there was Szymon…
 
None of them had known what to do about Szymon. He had been born with a startlingly contrasting coat coloration to Skellige’s and the mystics had been adamant about telling Serafiem that she had not given birth to a cursed child. Still, they had treated the boy as though he was a plague on their islands. He did not seem to truly fit any role that they assigned him, and so they set the pallid figure out to tend to the others. Skellige had always found a soft spot in his heart for the contrasting boy… for his brother, but the other Cairn children were vicious and cruel to Szy, and they had forced him into a neurotic state of being. The inky sea king could never abuse his youngest brother the way that his siblings had. He was a wicked man, but he could not muster the strength to harm the ink-ribbed child.
 
Even still, when the boy answered his question with a nervous shake of his skull and pointed his muzzle in the direction of a mountain that stretched further away, Skellige did not fault him. “You’ve seen her, then,” the leviathan remarked with a cold clip to his words. The wraith did not need to speak it for there to be an understanding. He wanted the pale woman dead. His first attempt – though botched – had not deterred him from finishing the job. Having her there without Jaglon was a marvel to him, and yet he could not help the anger that rose in the back of his throat at the thought of her sauntering into the wilds to find him without a significant form of defense to assist her. She would regret the decision she had made. Festering for a moment, the brute heaved a heavy sigh and fixed his dark eyes on the youngest Cairn. There was a questioning expression in the yellow of his brother’s eyes.
 
Glancing around to the bay where they stood, Skellige nodded his head. “This will be our home, Szymon. I will take this bay and you may stay here with me. You will not have to return to the brutality of the others. But we must find those of us who are alike in mind and soul… those who have spoken with the sea and have answered the call,” he explained in a quiet and rumbling voice. But the leviathan did not doubt that they would come; the swell of the ocean did not intend to see the ink child fail in his endeavors. Already, he had failed so much. This would be a triumph.

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