Stavanger Bay and the fire with all the strength it hath

Judging that the stinging nettle infusion had steeped for long enough, Szymon pushed the driftwood bowl toward his Chosen One. “Drink this,” he told her gently, regarding her with worry for the injuries she’d sustained in gathering honey for Sharkbait. The irrational fury he felt toward the bees for having the audacity to injure what was his roughened his bass timbre to a rumble of stormwind. He wondered how to respond to her question. Looking down at the small, dark creature — more malleable than the panicked golden child who was flighty and untrustworthy at best — he considered their options. The Sea had not given Qilaq to them — not yet. And if the little sea urchin was truly meant to be theirs, no period of waiting would change the outcome. Throw her to the waves now or later, what would be would be. “She can walk,” he pointed out slowly, though there was a part of him — buried deep, the scar tissue around that muscle grown so thick it could not truly be felt or classified — that balked at the thought as much as Doe did.

Thoughtfully he regarded the precious bundle the odd-eared woman cradled so ardently, “She is thin, f-frail, but her spirit is s-strong,” stated the black-banded Cairn staunchly. Qilaq had been strong enough to choose Doe. He had witnessed it in the meadow, when the wee creature had set aside her fear to go to the golden-eyed witch doctor. He did not know that she had done the same even in the presence of the large, dark wolf, but it would only have emphasized the point he was about to make. “She Chose you, l-lovely girl, even as I did.” For these reasons alone, “The Sea would find her pleasing.” The words rolled slowly off his tongue as he cuddled near to her, his teeth delicately removing what stingers remained and setting them upon the rabbit hide. He would clean it later and prepare it as he had prepared the fawn’s hide, but for now he wanted the venomous things out of Doe’s fur and out of Qilaq’s reach.

“You alone c-can ask Skellige to s-stay his hand,” Szymon admitted, spitting a few more stingers onto the rabbit hide. “Ask the S-Sea what she would t-take and I will help you get it.” The wounds above his right hock were as good as healed now, though the scabs were ugly and the fur was in a haphazard state of regrowth. He felt well enough to hunt, to bring back whatever was required of him. Perhaps they could make some sort of sacrifice as a temporary offering — at least until such time that Doe was assured of Qilaq’s survival. “It m-must happen if she is to be ours.” Ours. That was a funny little word, wasn’t it? “M-Mine, too, Doe?” he questioned, probably a stupid question, but given Doe’s generally possessive nature and his status as not-her-mate-yet, he felt he had to ask it.