Stavanger Bay nobody makes me bleed my own blood

It was not long before another appeared. Moorhen was not surprised; these shores were always crowded in her memories, even if the packs themselves came and went like the tide. This one was no less surly than the usual lot of seawolves, and although it did not now (nor had it ever) fail to get her back up, she felt a sudden surge of wistfulness for the cold little creature she had been, once upon a time.

Still, outwardly, she was an erne ruffling her feathers, faintly offended by the stranger's mien and looking to prove that she, too, had a sizeable chip on her shoulder. But she was not so young and brash anymore as to start a fight just for her pride; she was peaceable enough as she replied,

I come to see who lives here,

Her common tongue had always sounded especially common. It irked her even now, but she was long past taking pains over masking her accent and prettying up her words.

I was born here, she added, in case Umbra was wondering why. But this was near inconsequential to her, now. She moved on to the topic Umbra had brought up. Many packs have risen here. All are now fallen. Her nose twitched in quiet derision; she wondered how long Ironclan would last, and how like the other Stavanger packs it might be.

You are the leader? she asked, her body language becoming a fraction less defensive as she tried to open herself to a possible friendship with the kraken.