Stavanger Bay gangnam style

The chuckle that spilled from Szymon’s lips was warm, rich, and deep, the ghost of what his voice could have been — ought to have been — were it not ruined by the uneven, unpredictable impediment fashioned from splinters of anxiety and neuroses. “P-P-Probably,” he agreed. If it came down to survival, there was no telling what the swarthy titan would do; whether or not he would have eaten Arturo was anybody’s guess, but it was a certainty that Skellige Cairn needed very little reason to kill. A vole during famine was practically a guarantee. The story made sense — Skellige Cairn would bow to no wolf; his botched attempt at fratricide was proof of that. Alliances, though, could prove fruitful, provided they could be enforced. Szymon listened without speaking as Arturo confessed his respect for the Leviathan, owning that he was not the type to follow blindly or without great consideration given to the choice, and nodded when the Fearghal had finished.

“The b-blessing,” Szymon stated quietly, “is s-s-soon. The S-Sea c-c-can be un — f-f-forgiving — as S-S-Skellige himself.” Was the Nautlius ready for the approaching storm? The youngest Cairn’s sulphureous gaze flitted to Arturo’s face, his eyes seeking the fiery orange ones not in challenge or dominance but with rapt attention. “Y-You were injured, w-w-were you n-not?” Both of the new wolves’ scents had been tinged with blood, and although Szymon did not know the extent of their injuries, he sought to prepare Arturo as he had not been able to prepare the taciturn nameless wolf. Arturo would do well to rest and to train and to eat a great deal, as Szymon had been doing himself and urging Doe to do.