Stavanger Bay you can call me monster

The youngest Cairn awaited quietly, expectantly, the command of his brother; he would keep an eye out for the Witch Doctor in question, and in the meanwhile he would train and fortify the territory borders. It was not so different from his life in Warsaw, but Szymon bristled at the thought of lesser wolves — wolves who were not of the coveted Cairn blood — usurping his place. Flexing his paws, he fixed his sulphureous eyes upon Skellige’s face with new determination; he turned, seizing a length of ropelike kelp from the golden granules at their feet, and shook his head briefly from left to right — a swift maneuver that rocked the slight weight of his body to his hindquarters. Done correctly, it could snap a spine or break a neck. Jaws flexed as Szymon ground the kelp between his teeth and jerked, spitting the green and brown flecks onto the earth as he scratched a wide swath in the sand. At home, he had snapped bone and crushed throats with the same efficiency, and as he turned to look his brother in the eye — his narrow skull still held respectfully beneath the line of his shoulders in deference to the eldest Cairn — Szymon confirmed what Skellige already understood.

Szymon was still a Cairn. He would do anything required to build the regime here.

A low, guttural howl scraped the bottom of the bass register as Szymon proclaimed his brother’s status as Leviathan; it was not a voice pitched to carry — not yet, not until things were firmly set in motion — but in action and in the incontestable language of wildspeech, Szymon accepted Skellige’s leadership and pledged his willingness.

Our sea king, who art before me,
dreaded be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
on these shores as in Warsaw.