Stavanger Bay league of extraordinarily grumpy gentlemen

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Rannoch’s submissive behavior appeased the black-banded Cairn, who finished burying his prize in silence and then stretched forward his narrow skull, golden eyes closing as he shook the sand from his pelt and the tension from his muscles. The Frostfur boy had learned well one of the many lessons he would receive from the savage Blackrock warhounds. A low, guttural chuff of goodwill puffed Szymon’s cheeks and spilled warmly from his muzzle as he regarded the boy, the neutral set of his shoulders, tail, ears, and head stating in the simple, atavistic way of the wolf, “All is well.” Licking his lips, the salt-furred male gestured with a quirk of his scarred muzzle to follow him and made his way toward the scattering of intertidal pools. “H-H-Hungry, Rannoch?” he asked in a rumbling bass that caught on the first syllable in an embarrassing way. If the grayscale cub — whose large paws, broad shoulders, and heavy layers of muscle foretold his future as a wolf possibly rivaling even Skellige in size — was hungry, Szymon would teach him how to fish and show him the locations of the public caches. Doe’s private reserves were, of course, off limits.

[/td][/tr][/table]