Stavanger Bay shot me out of the sky, you're my kryptonite

Feel free to skip Sizzle as you see fit.

Szymon was several yards away when Aria’s summons, long and sonorous, sliced through the maritime winds. One tattered ear swiveled to catch and analyze it, but the inky-ribbed wolf was already on the move by the time he filed away the voice as one he did not recognize; he was protective of their borders, having marked most of them with his own blood and the rubbings of his fur, and he expected them to be respected. As he came upon the tableau, his sulphuerous gaze regarded the lustrous white female with a mixture of suspicion, should she be of the same vein as Leokadia or Ksenia — and tentative amicability, should she be possessed of Deirdre’s gentler nature. She was unmarked and regal, a beautiful, cold sort of creature to Szymon’s untutored eye, and he could not find a threat in her. Still, he remained wary as his eyes carefully assessed her companion — a swarthy wolf whose seal brown fur and darker mask were offset by a pair of fiery eyes not unlike Arturo’s.

A low, guttural chuff of greeting rumbled like distant thunder within his breast before breaking free from his scarred jaws — his narrow head was not skulking or canted in submission but held at a suitable level for greeting strangers, higher than his shoulders but not quite so high as Doe’s head, proclaiming her greater rank. He caught the tail end of Skellige’s question, deigning to keep his own silence, and drew parallel to the scrappy little witch doctor on the other side without touching her, his shoulders in line with the swell of her ribs. She was a different wolf before this audience, and so was he. His lean, angular musculature was held with easy readiness, the set of his paws in the sand prepared for motion even while at rest. The set of his features was stoic as he remained staunchly where he stood, an observer of the meeting if not an active participant.