Stavanger Bay Spirit cold

Szymon’s tattered ears fanned out to the sides of his narrow skull like a gull’s outstretched wings as he disappointedly regarded the child who cowered before him — before Szymon, of all wolves — a wolf who had once crept and crawled as omega. Perhaps it ought to have given him some kind of pleasure, being regarded as truly fearsome for maybe the first time in his young life, but he lacked a great deal of the malevolence his siblings wore so plainly. The Sea was testing him, he knew; Qilaq, at least, was biddable, but he was still vastly uncomfortable around her. Sharkbait was another entity entirely, one he could not make heads or tails of. If he offered food, she’d likely spurn it; if he tried to approach her, he was sure she’d flee like the small, scurrying beasts he snapped between his teeth. So he curled his haunches beneath himself, faced the Sea with an expression of aggrieved resignation, and lay like a sphinx in the sand without looking overtly at the little fish — wary as ever of her propensity for flight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the mechanical shake of her head and then the compassion that lurked somewhere within his charred heart did send tendrils of feeling through him and soften his expression and speech. He knew what it was to be panicked to the point of not being able to speak, and just as Skellige had done for him so many times before, he kept his questions for Sharkbait limited to those that could be answered with a shake or nod of her golden crown. Keeping his bass timbre low and devoid of the irritation that yet flickered within him, tensing his muscles that were ready still to leap to the chase, “Your Amayo,” he said, carefully sounding out the word that was still very new to him, “w-w-would be b-better to explain things, b-b-but I will try.” He licked his own lips, gathering his thoughts.

“Small j-j-jellyfish, d-do you hunger or th-thirst?” he asked first, biding his time as he tried to figure out where to begin.