Stavanger Bay gangnam style

The coywolf’s low, gruff murmur of salutation caught Szymon’s attention immediately; his spine stiffened minutely as the muscles of his body tensed, then relaxed, assuming a position of neutral readiness. He returned the quiet greeting with one of his own — an amicable growl that billowed into a guttural chuff of his own — and cautiously made his approach, his golden eyes flashing quiet recognition at the scent that soon reached him. It was the other unknown wolf — Szymon rolled his sharp, angular shoulders with a measured sigh of blasé recollection, thinking of the slate-cloaked wolf he had briefly crossed paths with. Perhaps this interaction would prove more fruitful. His sulphureous gaze mapped the other’s greater height; the palette of shale, sand, charcoal, and ink; the fiery sunset eyes that shone like bonfires in the eerie light of the moon. The movement of the older wolf’s body was loose and amiable, but Szymon had no doubt that he would prove a formidable opponent if tested.

When they were close enough to be easily heard and far enough to afford personal space befitting a first meeting, Szymon broke the silence. His breaths were measured and even, but the stammer remained, a rusted and rattling lock on the cage of his throat: “I know y-your scent,” he said flatly, pointedly. “I am Szymon C-C-Cairn.” The deep bass rumble of his voice, despite its stutter, was low and unhurried — but even these short statements wrought a tensing of his jaw and throat, forcing him to pull air carefully into his lungs lest he choke on it. The ever-present flicker of his tail tapped against his hocks as he awaited the other wolf’s reply; Szymon did not skulk before him as was his younger self’s wont but stood with tattered ears cupped intently forward. Stutter notwithstanding, he felt calm and easy as he awaited the coywolf’s reply, his roiling nerves settled by the nearness of the Sea.