Stavanger Bay This night ain't for the faint of heart

Brig lacked many things, but one of them was not a sense of hearing. When the call went up he noticed immediately -- and perhaps the lessening of three of his senses gave him some extra power on the others. Not that he needed it, now -- the howl drew long and loud across the beach where he was picking through the cracked shells of oysters with the help of Adéwalé's beak.

For a brief moment he paused, ears slanting in the direction of the sound, face turning to follow. He contemplated sending Adéwalé on his own to see what was going on -- it did not sound like Smokestep's voice, but whatever it was he supposed he would have to meet his new packmates sooner or later. He sent the jackdaw a look, and the bird snapped neatly down to his shoulder.

He hadn't yet taken a single step when Adéwalé said, "Careful with the shells."

Brig paused, and looked at the ground, the razor-sharp pieces of oyster strewn about. "Ah, yes," he said, quite genuinely thankful about that warning, and manuvered himself gingerly around the patch of sand before he set off at a steady clip along the shore. The snow seemed to be on its way to melting, but still he stayed where the waves met the sand, splashing water up his legs, soaking his fur.

He rounded the outcropping of rock in his way and came to a somewhat abrupt stop when he spied exactly what he had been called to see. He knew neither one of the wolves facing off, but he could only assume they were also Ironsea -- as well as the tiny black and brown woman already watching some distance away. Smokestep was nowhere to be seen; he could only hope this wasn't infighting already.

He manuvered himself out of the reach of the water, and stood to watch. Adéwalé remained silent on his shoulder.