Sea Lion Shores the halls of our fathers

Sizzle doesn’t know how to play very well. ;-;

The wolves of these wilds appeared, for the most part, to be far more tactile than Szymon would ever be completely comfortable with; he controlled the baser instinct — the monster’s instinct — to lash out at Ragna for her playful nip and merely snaked out his narrow skull, snapping harmlessly at air with a mild-mannered expression as he put on the gas and sped after her. He moved comfortably on the sand — his long legs were literally made for it — but his heart wasn’t in the race. Competitiveness was for Szymon an ugly, unpleasant thing, and even flippant games such as these — impromptu ones that wrested a superlative title from one wolf to bestow it upon another — saw fit to agitate him. Instead he focused on the joy of running alongside a spirited, pretty girl and the promise of food; this melted the apprehension away, and he kicked sand up like a spirited bronco as he reached the pools just a second or two behind her.

“F-Fast,” he observed appreciatively. He wondered if she could also fish as the Cairn children did, every last one of them taking to water like a barracuda. After a brief appetizer, perhaps he’d show off his own skills. Settling down to give her the first opportunity to strike, “Wh-What are your p-p-plans, Ragna?” he boldly questioned, wondering whether she’d settle down further inland or join one of the other coastal packs. He didn’t think she’d want to join the Blackrock warband, given the fact that Skellige would never, in her eyes, compare to the legacy her father had left behind. She would not be able to respect him the way Szymon and Doe did. His golden eyes fixed vividly on the swimming shadows that waited in unsuspecting whorls, eagerly licking at his lips as he waited his turn.