Stavanger Bay gangnam style

The Fearghal’s continued humor drew another low, purling laugh from Szymon’s weak-willed throat, his golden eyes skimming sidelong to catch the brief twitch of the Nautilus’ lips. “Good,” the boy said simply upon hearing that Arturo’s wounds had healed, but his expression of quiet calm twitched into something more somber at Arturo’s next statement. It was weighted with the futility of one who had experienced such an injury, and the youngest Cairn understood that futility more than he could adequately express. A low, rumbling sigh spilled from his jaws — a sign of weakness that he rarely betrayed, having learned through the years that betraying any weakness whatsoever was inviting trouble. Szymon was not a creature for regret; he accepted his lot in life, his stutter, his need to fight constantly for a place on the hierarchical ladder — and he accepted the fact that one step out of Skellige’s favor or one wrong move in a tussle with one of his larger siblings could knock him to the lowest rung once more.

“Yes,” he said quietly, a rolling shift of one sharp, angular shoulder saying plainly, “There’s nothing that can be done about that.” Nevertheless, “W-W-We can only g-g-g-get stronger,” he said, glancing to the older wolf. “Th-Those p-p-parts of us th-that are s-s-sound must be st-strengthened.” It was the only way Szymon knew — guided by the turtle, he had learned to harden his shell, growing stronger and more resilient with every beating as he learned from the wounds. “P-Pack will aid you, if you aid y-y-yourself.” His golden eyes glowed with conviction — if Arturo needed help, Szymon would willingly give it, but a lot of the legwork would end up being up to Arturo himself.