Stavanger Bay run doe run

The airy, dreamlike lilt that slipped from Doe’s lips was the voice of the Witch Doctor, and Szymon jerked his golden eyes to hers with an expression of absolute disbelief — her intention, he realized belatedly, and he snorted at her as his fangs closed teasingly around her wrist. He shook the slender joint very gently, as though her bones were hollow and brittle as a bird’s — and often, he believed that to be absolutely true — in a playful manner of punishing her. “Like hell you do,” his gaze told her, as he rumbled with mock discontent. Yet as she grew serious, the levity leaving her tone and facial expression, he too dropped back to earth and honed in on her every word. He was a Cairn — the sea commanded him, but he was not a mystic and it would never speak to him the way it spoke to Doe and perhaps to Arturo.

Szymon’s eyes roved the beach, judging the length of the border against the pile of rocks and shells they’d gathered. It wasn’t nearly enough — not yet. Turning to her as she voiced his own thoughts — “halfway there,” she guessed, and Szymon nodded grim agreement — the pale wolf got to his paws. If Doe worked herself ragged, the ceremony itself could fell her; he’d seen it happen before with Witch Doctors who so lost themselves in commune with the sea that they forewent the basic needs of food and rest. Determinedly, the inky-ribbed Cairn threw back his head and sent up a billowing, demanding howl meant to carry across the whole of the bay territory — his deep bass timbre, so rarely lifted above a whisper, filled the air as he called those loyal to Skellige to attention. With the help of other wolves, they would be able to finish the project — and although he hadn’t asked Doe’s permission about seeking their help, the set of his jaw brooked no argument. She had said nothing about a special order being required for the actual gathering of the supplies, just the ceremony itself.

Drawing breath, his eyes turning to the little Witch Doctor of whom he had grown so fond, Szymon howled again, calling for @Keto, @Arturo, @Tetsubō, @Jagoda, and even @Leokadia, whose appearance he had been avoiding since first learning of her arrival. “Those loyal to Skellige and who seek to claim this land, the Witch Doctor requires your aid.” Dipping his muzzle low, he hazarded one last gesture of affection before the inevitable arrival of at least one loyal wolf, pressing a lick to the Witch Doctor’s cheek and rumbling an apology for his brazenness. Faced with the thought of losing her to weakness, even if only temporarily due to exhaustion, Szymon would choose any other option. Then, on paws that were accustomed to stealing away, he returned to his task of gathering stones.