Stavanger Bay she brought the sugar and the mint

Szymon listened without interrupting as he followed Doe to the den she had begun to dig. He had never heard of easing the bitter taste of herbs via a sweeter substance; in Warsaw, a sick wolf ate or drank what he or she was told without question, no matter the taste. A sick wolf was next door to a dead wolf, and a dead wolf was of no use to the pack. When she emerged, his heart drummed an uncomfortable double beat that echoed in the wide sweeps of his tail upon seeing her again; he bent his muzzle to the ingredients she presented to investigate their scent and appearance and nodded at her question.

The cache where he’d stored his odds and ends — the wooden items, those skulls and feathers he could find, and any other Witch Doctor-y items he came across — was near to hers in case she had need of anything therein, and he offered a low, growling chuff as he turned, his intent to retrieve the “bowl” she’d asked for. He gripped it gingerly in his jaws, canting his head at an awkward horizontal angle to fill it with fresh water from an inland source, and walked slowly back with it. Somewhat clumsily, he set it down again, a few droplets of the water sloshing over the side, but most of it remaining where he hoped she could use it. “Mm?” he questioned her, his bass timbre quirking with an upward inflection. “Is that enough?” What a wonder that single syllable was — within it, Szymon could place a question or an answer.

He wondered about the traditions from Doe’s natal pack — he had never been present at a wedding, and had never known wolves to celebrate their mateship by anything other than…well, consummating the marriage, to put it delicately. None of his siblings had chosen to share their lives with others; and of course, his parents were already bonded and settled by the time Szymon came along. Where did she come from? And what did they celebrate there? He found himself uncommonly curious — not because the information was something he could use or wield, but because he was simply, frivolously, innocuously curious for the simple joy of knowing. It was odd, recognizing that quality in himself. Speaking again so soon seemed to be too difficult for him to encounter, so he hummed for her again, moving his muzzle toward the lemongrass or mint, nodding his willingness to help out — chewing was something he was more than capable of.