Stavanger Bay pain is a ritual we are required to conduct in

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The meat that he provides himself with is never enough. Nothing is ever enough these days except that which he tries to deny himself; this has become a fact of Kerberos’ life. Perhaps his children will better accumulate to a life of abstinence but he is too old. …Or perhaps they will not. Perhaps they, too, will be stuck with the clinging demon of addiction for the flesh of their own species for the rest of their ( presumably ) long lives. Sleep is not often kind to the Aok most nights: it is far from peaceful because Sos is unrelenting as he haunts his slumber. The screams and decaying scent of the thousands upon thousands souls that the Dark Father has devoured is enough to stir even the most soundest sleepers from rest. Sos is a demanding deity at his best: he requires sacrifice and blood and practitioners of voodoo. Of dark magic.

His ears cup forth and his attention turns to the sound of approaching footfalls, his black, leathery nostrils flaring as he draws in the stranger’s scent. Female. There is the scent of others that cling to her earthen agouti pelage but nothing quite so concrete as a pack. Yet. A foundling pack, he thinks. She calls out to him and Kerberos slides himself from his cage ( because that was more or less the purpose the tangle of ash tree limbs ) and rises to his full height, his fur mussed from the spindly limbs as he’d backed himself out of the small self-made prison. “No, no,” He shakes his head in an effort to assure her. “Sleep does not come easy to me most nights,” He admits. “I was awake before your approach.”