Stavanger Bay run doe run

Szymon had been given his own responsibilities by the Leviathan, and there was nothing he liked better than the command to, “Seek the Witch Doctor for assistance, or to find out if she may need you to gather herbs.” He had been preoccupied with border marking, however, which required its own wealth of physical stamina and speed to catch prey and mark the borders in blood. Tufts of his fur and spatters of his own blood from torn nails or gums due to scratching open trees or leaving his mark on what stones he could find were small potatoes compared to what he had before him, though, and it was perhaps this vehemence that he not be the lowest rung of the ladder that drove him so doggedly. Leokadia was here now, and Szymon had convinced himself that he would best his littermate in battle this time — he was something different now. Something more.

He was training on this day: in his jaws, he held the battered leather from the corpse of a beached creature of the sea — whale or shark, it was impossible to tell at this point, for it had been picked over and was now just a trellis of bones, mostly rib cage, with strips of leather hide here and there. Szymon held the leather within his teeth and threw his weight back against it, thrashing his head from side to side to fortify the muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back. Fighting weariness from his earlier endeavors in fighting the current, Szymon humped his spine, digging his paws into the sand and curling his toes, until a soft breeze brought him the metallic scent of blood — and the salt and cinnamon mixture of allure that was Doe.

The dread and rage he felt at the thought of Doe being bloodied by any creature swept through Szymon like a wildfire; it was similar to the rush of adrenaline he could not help but feel when fighting alongside his brother, but with a new, poignant venom for which he had no explanation. He threw down the hide, his lips already curling up over his fangs, and barreled down the beach on his long seafarer’s legs — only to find Doe, alone, carrying stone after stone despite the lean and hungry way her shale and sand-patterned pelt clung to her weary muscles.

Irrationally, the youngest Cairn was annoyed that she should undertake this task alone, without taking the time to rest or feed her body adequately — despite the fact that he was no different, working himself ragged and often too neurotic to find the time and privacy to sleep or eat. He strode over to her quietly, a rumble like a distant hurricane at sea curling his tongue and burning his throat as his sides heaved exertion. He could remember to breathe now that he knew she was not under abject duress. Drawing breath, very quietly, “D-D-D — ” he stammered, his ire growing at his inability to unfurl clearly the word that was her name. He wanted her to stop — but had not the power to command her.

Turning, he fetched from a nearby cache the odd combination of a sculpin and a moderately sized ground squirrel, he dropped them at her feet and nosed them toward her. The unsullied baritone of his voice rasped, scraping the lowest notes of his register in a pleading groan-growl. Please eat. Please rest. Demonstrating his willingness to help, he dipped his muzzle and gingerly lifted one of the stones, his eyes suggestively moving from Doe to the surf and turf meal he’d set before her as a heavy breath swelled his upper lip commonly, ballooning it out into a reassuring chuff.