Stavanger Bay what is ruin if not the body becoming aware of itself

Stavanger Bay is not the safe haven it had once been for Witchdoctor and this development is unsurprising because it’s absent Skellige and his crew. The spirits whisper insistently and sometimes the white noise becomes screams in his head. It’s busy in here, Riptide thinks with unbidden distaste. Even without the gangster squabbling and fighting with him for control. Busy, busy, busy. Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, looks like you need a Doctor! Ridiculous because he was the Witchdoctor; ridiculous because he was not ill. The voices whisper and giggle as he paces along the white sand shore of the Bay, pausing to glimpse over his svelte shoulder at the rise of red rock that forms a cocoon around the Bay. Witchdoctor is careful not to stray too far from Wheeling Gull Isle, tethered to it as he was. Well, not to the territory specifically but rather a fiery red-head that was about to give birth to his children any second now. No. Arturo’s children. No. His children? By proxy? No. His children. It didn’t matter that Arturo sired them. They were one in the same, he and the gangster. Or at least, they shared a bones and blood and flesh and mind. Or rather, they had shared.

The king was dead and the nightmare that swooped in to steal his place was unsure — always so unsure! — of if he’s the painted villain or the tragic hero. Witchdoctor winces and shushes the voices aloud, gnashing his sharp teeth together and breathing an audible breath of relief when they cease. Surprisingly, being in Hemlock’s presence keeps them quiet and that was reason enough to stay with her …providing she doesn’t give him the boot, first. Witchdoctor’d never considered it ( because of course he hadn’t ). She’ll leave you. She’ll leave you and find another man. A better man. A sane man. Poor, broken Witchdoctor. The voices hissed and snarled and the svelte coy wolf let out a snort turned huff as he scoops up a mouthful of seaweed as he approaches it and chews it with more vigor than it necessary. It is fresh from the sea but his phantoms are being horribly unkind to him and he just wants them to stop.

Yet, he cannot return yet. Not when he is empty pretty things to decorate his freshly re-started collection of skulls and other assorted bones kept in a separate den, of course. After all, he doesn’t want his little spawn getting their greedy jaws upon his treasures. Things he’s particularly possessive about, hoarding them his baubles like a magpie.