Honeyed Pasture she got me going crazy

Tattered ears dancing askew with the weight of his displeasure, “I,” Szymon tartly informed the grey-eyed woman, “am n-not your s-s-sweet.” Shock was in his auriferous eyes, as if the mere thought of being either of those things — Rowan’s or sweet — was completely unbelievable. He was not a creature naturally given to manners or tact, but did his level best to rearrange his roughhewn features into an expression of neutrality as she continued to speak. It was good she had a home in mind, but he didn’t like the idea of the woman traveling a long distance without some form of guidance or protection. There was aught about the female that gave Szymon pause — that made him feel untutored and green — and he did not like or know how to cope with it. When she spoke of the Sea, a certain reverence gilding her even timbre, the black-banded Cairn found himself soothed.

“D-Does She s-s-speak to you?” he asked in a gentler tone, though its gruff overtone remained. “The Sea.” The very word seemed to ground him; he felt anew the solidness of the earth beneath his paws and knew himself to be a Cairn, beholden to no wolf, blessed incomparably by the ocean itself.