Stavanger Bay you can call me monster

A fierce and vicious snarl curled the lip of the youngest Cairn, who felt the monster within him gnash its teeth deliciously at the sound of Skellige’s voice. It was the voice of a wolf accustomed to living seaside — it caught the tradewinds and billowed skyward, floating over the surface of the wave-rippled surface and diving below. The lash of Szymon’s tail was a wild, frenetic thing as he eagerly reached up to clasp his eldest brother’s chin and lower jaw between his teeth in a wordless sign of respect and triumph. And then, facing the Sea they both loved, Szymon threw back his head — keeping the crown of his head at a respectful parallel with his brother’s lower jaw — and howled, scraping the bottom of his bass register and pouring the whole of his heart into this cry. With Skellige leading the cry and leading the pack, the last reserves of doubt fissured away from Szymon’s tortured heart.

This land was a new beginning for the eldest Cairn. Could it be a new beginning for the youngest as well? He had spent his life crushed beneath the boot heel and raked by the fangs of his siblings — a late bloomer, a failed experiment, perhaps — but for the first time he felt there was something in the air here, something that could be combed from the gold of these shores, that would transform him and lift him up again. Butting his shoulder against Skellige’s with a hopeful, toothy smile, Szymon sang again the proclamation that was Skellige’s claim and then dared his brother’s ire with a sharp nip to the older wolf’s chest. “Are you a fool land wolf? No? Then come back home,” bespoke the wicked gleam of his eyes, and Szymon darted toward the roiling Sea. He had been too long without Her arms around him.