Stavanger Bay omerta

murgash stamped his feet as he waited, tapping along with some imaginary beat. he was about to belt out in ludicrous song when he was hailed by an assumed packmate -- a wolf cloaked in dark fur with a sharply contrasting mask of pale ivory.

there were many things wrong with murgash and none were so blandly innocent as having towed seaweed from the proclaimed 'murgash's island'. the beast licked his chops slowly, savoring the brine flavor of his ropy, foamy saliva.

there were few things so damning to first impressions than uncouthness, and murgash eyed the beast critically. the lack of civility would be reciprocated -- and it would be reciprocated tenfold. after all, murgash might possibly have been the coarsest, nastiest thing alive  -- he was not about to let an offhand slight go unanswered.

"wot's wrong wit me?" he parroted, his voice thick with the lowlands: "wots wrong wit yew? why is dere a tuna-hedded cloutwit interferin' wit my offishal pekk bisness? lookin' all like yew stuk yer face in some moldy deer crap or sum shit." he added dismissively, already deciding this one was not one he thought kindly of.