Stavanger Bay gangnam style

Recognition bloomed within the young wolf’s sulphureous eyes. “Th-The d-d-diplomat,” he guessed, recalling his brother’s brief overview of prospective followers. A Cairn did not bow — not even to his own kin, most of the time, unless he was made to do so — but Szymon stiffly canted his head in acknowledgment of Arturo’s introduction. Had he been privy to Arturo’s thoughts, he would have shrugged his shoulders in stoic nonchalance; it did not matter to the Warsaw wolf whether the Fearghal’s blood was mixed and with what, so long as the concoction provided two things: loyalty to Skellige and reverence for the Sea. It was for Skellige to make decisions as to legitimacy and worth, and he had spoken of the fiery-eyed wolf with as much respect as could be mustered from the swarthy titan. Yet Szymon could not know Arturo’s thoughts — he sensed only that there was a stirring unrest in the other wolf which made him wary.

“H-How d-d-did — ” the youngest Cairn stammered out, as irritated with his stutter as Arturo was with his lineage. He awaited ridicule with his usual hypervigilance but soldiered on regardless; Ishild had been a diplomat and although she could not precisely be called “gentle” she had rained less physical abuse on Szymon because of her reliance on intellect rather than brute force. It would be useful for him — and, he admitted, pleasing — to gain an ally in Arturo. Drawing breath, he looked out over the waves — keeping one tattered ear and the majority of his senses trained on the intricately patterned Fearghal — and tried again: “H-How did you m-m-meet my b-b-brother?” he gritted out, and more importantly, “Why f-f-f-follow h-him?” Could Arturo’s loyalty truly be trusted? What was in it for the Nautilus and why did he stay?