Stavanger Bay fancy thinking the beast was something you could hunt and kill

The creature Szymon found himself faced with was like no beast he had ever seen before — that it was a wolf, he had no doubt, but what a wolf! Sulphureous eyes watched with rapt attention as the mangy wanderer paused and arranged his threadbare limbs into a neutral position; it appeased the Cairn boy that this wolf, at least, seemed to understand the atavistic etiquette of his kind. A guttural chuff of wary greeting spilled from Szymon’s jaws as he carefully regarded the stranger — male, older than Szymon, and seemingly able-bodied underneath the pock-marked, roughhewn hide. The youngest Cairn’s musculature settled into a waiting readiness should the dark wolf prove antagonistic — and with an eloquent lift of one brow and a brusque cant of his scarred muzzle in the direction of the bay, “You c-c-come t-too c-c-close,” he said quietly, his bass timbre marred by the stutter that locked fists around his stumbling tongue. Though the wolf had not trespassed by any means, Szymon found himself on high alert.

“Wh-What is it you w-w-want, wolf?” he spat, forcing the words bodily from his tongue as he stared pointedly at the fell beast, a ready growl stirring within his chest and sharpening his guttural voice. The wolf was either clumsy and stupid, or he had wanted to be found. From the lack of surprise he regarded Szymon with, the Guyot guessed it was the latter — but only time would tell.