Gyrfalcon's Keep break you down and swallow you up

Snapping irritably at the bird, but not before she got in a good peck or two, Szymon flattened his ears defensively against his narrow skull, choosing to give the nests a wider berth — for now, anyway. Whirling into a defensive crouch at the snorting chuckle of the white-furred wolf — and made doubly suspicious by the immaculate fur, until he noted the tint of the male’s eyes was dark instead of light — Szymon warily nodded his head in a silent affirmative. The stranger was marked in a way Szymon had never seen before: dark grey spots peppered his cheeks, nose, and shoulders, giving him a look that was somewhat avian in appearance. His instinct, at first, was to give in to his ire and vent his temper in a physical way — but he had no wish to cause friction with the pack wolves while the bay territory was still in the tenuous process of being claimed.

Rumbling a cordial greeting, he narrowly avoided another assault from one of the birds — reacting automatically, he sidestepped neatly, bringing him a few paces closer to the strange wolf. The stranger’s upper back and right shoulder were littered with wide, visible scars and his body looked to be capable and lean-muscled. No matter the mood Szymon had been in before, he found that the screech of the gyrfalcons kept him from brooding — and the appearance of this wolf offered further distraction. Perhaps they could strike up some odd alliance for a time. A vaguely familiar scent that Szymon could not quite place lingered in this wolf’s fur — not indelible and deeply embedded, but fresh and new. It piqued Szymon’s interest considerably. “T-T-Travel — ” he gritted out in a low, guttural bass timbre, the lock in his throat cutting the word off in its middle. Hoping that the cacophonous atmosphere hid some of his stammering, “T-Travel — l-l-ling?” he questioned, trying to gauge whether this wolf — a warrior, perhaps, if Szymon took the scars into account; or perhaps merely a fool in the wrong place at the wrong time — would be a good initiate for the bay.

He had no idea, of course, that the ocean-eyed wolf before him had been born in the very place Skellige was beginning to stake his claim upon.