Stavanger Bay she brought the sugar and the mint

Oh! I like this song a lot!

Left to his own devices, Szymon gave in to his tendency to keep to himself. He worked doggedly, patrolling the borders and building what caches he could, but eventually fell into his old habits — sleeping infrequently and eating alone to avoid attracting attention. He had not yet made the acquaintances of Arturo and Tetsubō, but he knew vaguely of their existence from their scents, comingled with those of Skellige and Doe. They would belong to Skellige and to the sea once the claim was made official, and Szymon would have to figure out how to interact with them. It was not a task he looked forward to. He had been the omega among his siblings, but although the desire to dominate and conquer sizzled and sputtered with fragile tenuousness instead of burning brightly in Szymon’s soul, he knew he would not be content bending his head to every wolf who crossed the borderlines.

A brightly piping, two-toned bark sounded then, warm with a lilting note of affection, and the voice that sounded forth was one that immediately caught Szymon’s attention. “Sy!” the Witch Doctor called out, and immediately the inky-ribbed wolf stopped his current activity — dragging long lengths of kelp up the beach to cover the caches as Doe had recommended — and swiveled his ears searchingly, auriferous eyes intently scanning the area. He moved toward the sound of her voice, tangled in a quietly rollicking song he had never heard, his paws moving more quickly as it became easier to pinpoint her location. “Sy! Ka-ka’yi! Sy!” came again the melodic, piping cry, and something clicked in the youngest Cairn’s mind as he connected the sound with himself. He thought himself incapable of creating such a sound for her — his low, guttural timber could not reach the avian heights Doe’s could — but perhaps in time, the right notes would come to him. Szymon had never composed anything before. His family created war and bloodshed, not beauty.

He wanted to call to her, but the reluctance to attract attention stayed his tongue. The idea of having a unique name for the female appealed to Szymon more than any other, aside from the clawing need to find and remain with his brother. Pitching his voice low, his head still canted below the crest of his shoulders and his ears cast uneasily to the sides of his narrow skull, he parted his jaws and howled — a quiet, clandestine sound that brushed the lowest notes in his register and climbed, sonorous and steady, a mirroring warmth and searching desire threading through his call. Doe? I’m coming. Where are you? He moved unerringly in her direction, pausing only to sing for her in turn, oddly emboldened that the first howl hadn’t choked in his throat.