Sea Lion Shores 1957

Szymon bit back the growl that wanted to claw its way to the surface — “I have to get back to the bay,” she’d said, but what she had to do was eat; what she had to do was stay with him — and turned his attention to the stricken creature who had seen his greatest strength and greatest weakness in one defining moment. He had no apology to give her, but seemed to mull over her words for a long, pregnant moment before an embittered sigh hissed from his pursed lips. His smooth bass timbre, ironically gentle and sonorous, contrasted sharply with his mood and mien. “I am a Cairn,” he informed her quietly. “Szymon Cairn.” He weighed his response carefully and loosed it with slow deliberation: “There is no light in me.”

The black-banded Leviathan fixed the viridian-eyed sylph with an intent stare. “We have met at a bad time,” he said bluntly, “but unless Arturo wishes to break the alliance between Blackrock Depths and T-Teaghlaigh, you are my ally. No harm will come to you should you seek an audience at the bay.” His tattered ears swept toward the crash of the Sea; he was impatient to get away, to follow Doe, but he had learned a little about diplomacy and he knew that his dealings with this wolf — with all of Teaghlaigh’s wolves — were important. Skellige had needed no wolf — only his own convictions and the Sea’s blessing — but Szymon was a different kind of wolf. A different kind of Leviathan.

Abruptly, the golden-eyed alpha ran out of words. Never one to prolong a meeting when he could be getting the hell out of one, he dipped his scarred muzzle to the strange female. “Give my regards to the Fearghal,” he uttered, and then tacked on a hasty, “please.” Without a second glance, he picked up the mangled rabbit, leaving tufts of fur and skin behind, and set off for the bay at a ground-eating trot.