Stavanger Bay little memories, marching on

Last post from Szymon!

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The Leviathan observed with pride as his young son’s claws swiped viciously — and quickly — across his chest; it didn’t fit with Szymon’s personal fighting style, but he wouldn’t begrudge the boy his instincts. The shallow furrows didn’t break skin, but Szymon reacted as if they had, stumbling backward like a wounded target with a feigned grimace of pain. “Never let your guard down,” he cautioned his son in a warning rumble. “Feed that feeling but aim it with good sense. A dumb wolf is a dead wolf.” That wasn’t necessarily true all the time — Isengrim’s uncle Jagoda was a prime example of that — but Szymon didn’t hold Isengrim and Julep to Jagoda’s standards or even to Skellige’s. They were in a class all their own.

Moving slowly as befitted an adult wolf playing with a much smaller cub, he tested the barracuda — feinting first to the left, then sweeping right. He wanted to explore the young seawolf’s adaptability. Isengrim was swift, but could he think on his feet? Szymon’s scarred muzzle snaked forth in a mild attempt to butt at his son’s flank or hip, but he intentionally set his weight heavily on his forelegs, moving only his head and neck. It put him in a poor state as far as balance went and left his legs vulnerable to attack.

Szymon and his son spent the better part of the afternoon playing in this way, and by the time they were finished the Leviathan’s scarred forelegs were riddled with tiny punctures and shallow scrapes — the little berserker’s handiwork.

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