Stavanger Bay buzzing of the bees

The sea king’s summons rolled across the bay territory like a cresting wave, growing in volume and pitch to sunder the wavestruck calm with imperious intent — and Szymon was quick to obey, the agitated flicker of his tail betraying the mingled elation and trepidation he felt at being singled out by his brother. Lifting his narrow skill, he howled a brief reply — his deep, guttural bass timbre carried a new note of confidence as he assured his brother he was coming — and gathered up the offerings he had gathered. Whether Skellige wanted to offer these things to the sea or adorn his territory borders with them was his affair, but surely he would see the glory of Szymon’s burgeoning prowess and know that his brother was not spending time in idle laziness. Too, the ripple of muscle that shifted and flexed beneath his obsidian-ribbed pelt was new. Szymon would always be dwarfed in size compared to his siblings, but he was no longer such a pushover.

Bearing with him the gifts he had prepared, Szymon uttered a low, guttural chuff as he approached his brother with a measure of natural wariness — summons or no, it did not pay to let his guard down around any Cairn, even one as beloved as Skellige. Proudly he laid the spurdog at the Leviathan’s paws — the poisonous spines had been meticulously removed but the carcass itself was impressive, stretching about two and a half feet in length. Too, the leathery skin and razor-edged fangs had remained untouched — only the deep punctures where Szymon’s teeth had struck the creature down sullied it. Szymon then retrieved the skull of the mountain goat he had attacked with Charon — any usable scrap of meat was gone from it, but after vigorously rubbing it against sand and stone, and allowing it to soak in salt water and bathe in the sun, it was an impressive trophy. The gleaming black horns were of great fascination to the boy, who had never seen or hunted such odd prey before.

He approached his brother cautiously, his lips curling back to reveal the serrated crescents of his fangs as he closed his teeth lovingly over Skellige’s chin in homage — his body remained low, but lacked its painfully locked and “clamped” appearance. He stood calmly, despite the ever-present flicker of his bottlebrush tail, the uneven lengths of his fur tousled and salt-crusted by the capricious breath of the Sea. Bowing his head, he stepped back and looked watchfully at his eldest sibling, awaiting orders as was his wont.