Dragoncrest Cliffs deity of scars

And it was upon this one single rusted notch that Svalinn would cling, dangling feebly from the sea-weathered rung like his life depended on it. His ears pressed forward as Jorunn relayed his proffered spiel, and he made no motion to deny anything that she said. The cayenne she-wolf demanded more; she glimmered like a redgem in the sand, a warning sign to all who approached.

Caiaphas Eyjolfur, he responded. Val called her The Sea Witch.

Though she had been no witch to him. Just Ma.

The gold-caped wolf from the day of carnage arrived then; all of her surging like blacksmoke from a coal train, heated and pressing like the force of a hammer upon anvil. Svalinn remained very still at her command, lankly allowing her to inspect him as she wished. He had felt enough teeth upon his hide that he no longer feared it. In fact, his very first moments in life had seen him tattooed by the hate of bedeviled fangs. He was not afraid.

But he was reverent.