Stavanger Bay sending a danger signal

A flash of movement out of the corner of Szymon’s eyes caught his attention. He watched the valkyrja, mapping her descent with a suspicious expression in his sulphureous eyes; he gulped the rest of his fish without preface or apology, not precisely food aggressive like many of his siblings, but not one to linger over a kill when others were present. The wolf — female, his sharp nose told him plainly, and a recent addition to Skellige’s warband — seemed equally cautious. He watched her obliquely, taking in the neat, efficient way she moved — she was a smallish beast with lean, wiry muscles and a spare construction — and dipped his muzzle. The scents of Doe and Skellige were rich in her fur, which was resume enough for the youngest Cairn, and although the frenetic twitching of his tail did not cease, he relaxed the muscles of his body and stepped away from the discarded bones of his kill, licking scales from his scarred lips.

Szymon had some idea of who the dove-grey female was from scent alone, and perhaps she would recognize his scent in turn from his constant nearness to Doe. The process of elimination only confirmed his guess: she was not Arturo or the nameless male; she was obviously not one of his siblings; and she was not his Chosen One. There was only one wolf she could be, but the golden-eyed boy had serious doubts about being able to fluidly pronounce her name. To stave off the embarrassment, he rumbled a cordial greeting that swelled from his jaws in a rolling chuff. “H-Hello,” he said ponderously, his guttural bass timbre made husky from disuse.