Gyrfalcon's Keep break you down and swallow you up

The youngest Cairn awoke in a fit of temper so virulent it forced him from the bay territory lest he make decisions or waves he would later regret. While the pack was in its fledging stages, it would do no good to breed dispute — the sea required a united force. It could — and should — be argued that asserting himself among his packmates meant dispute was inevitable, but Szymon had never been the instigating kind. He made his rounds of the territory borders, marking them with fur and scent and the blood of his worn nails — and then he stepped beyond them with only a quick beat of hesitation in his long, rangy stride. Szymon was not a large wolf — only a few inches kept him from being classified as “small” — but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in tenacity. Like the turtle that guided his steps, he was made to survive.

He made use of his time, securing a fat rabbit for the caches and discovering a large mass of sphagnum on one of the rotting corpses of fallen sequoia; knowing it useful for its absorbent and antiseptic properties as well as its ability to hold water, Szymon gingerly filled his mouth with the stuff and carried it back to the territory, seeking and finding a hidden waterfall pool to store it in until a needful time. He made several trips, though he had no hope the moss would grow here; it seemed to thrive on rotting logs but the stone here was of a different material entirely. After gathering all he could find, he set out again — calmer, perhaps, and slightly more focused, but still in a foul mood and likely unfit to converse with others. He lingered at the northwestern border before heading toward the piercing cacophony of the gyrfalcons’ hillock.

At least the shrieking here was so ridiculously shrill nobody would attempt a conversation with him. Because it’s not like you’d be able to string a sentence together anyway, he thought bitterly to himself, snapping without true intent at one of the squawkers. Perhaps he could carry back an egg or two for Doe. Eggs, Szymon knew, were rich with protein. They were something of an oddity to him, but he recalled stealing a seagull egg or two and being rewarded with a rich, unique flavor that didn’t compare to anything else he’d tasted. Even if she found the taste not to her liking, they could at least crack them on the rocks which would provide a moment’s amusement. Thinking of Doe brightened his mood, but as a gyrfalcon dive-bombed him — as though chastising him for the very thought of raiding her nest — he growled, scraping the bottom of his bass timbre as his ears thrust threateningly forward upon his skull.