Stavanger Bay is it the sea you hear in me, its dissatisfactions?

 
The pale witch roamed over his figure with a prodding nose. The cold touch caused his skin to rise and the fur along his neck and back bristle with unease. She was a healer, but the witch doctors of his home were not so quick to break the sacred space between them. When they did, he knew it was dire. It was this reminder that flooded through his system as he stood rigidly for the girl. She moved with the same finesse that he did in battle. It was peculiar for him to witness the same dedication but used to mend instead of destroy. Skellige wondered if his life would have been different if he had been born in the woodland with her – if he would favor tender touches and soft words over the rage and chaos of battle.  
 
When she spoke, his ears drew forward and he listened with a solemn expression on his dark face. The words struck him, but he could not allow them to sink in. His shoulder would be scarred, she had stated, and if he wished to keep his muzzle from doing the same, he would need to tend carefully to the wound. His mind wandered over the limp and he frowned to her, unable to muster the anger to speak out against what had happened. Instead, he bowed his head to her apology and breathed a quiet sigh.