Stavanger Bay hung upon the crescent moon

She had claimed the bay as well as a lone woman could hope to.   She traipsed through the cove with a clipped, graceful stride and a confidence that was unmatched, her scent permeated the territory in and out, and her salt crusted withers rose at those who dare come too close.

There was a telling difference between the bay and a true claim other than the lack of numbers; despite showing obvious signs of residence, there was no effort made to mark its borders. The sea had gifted the whitesand shores and its bountiful resources to the cocoa-dusted sovereign, yet she had no desire to stake her claim here without having to see what the rest of these new lands yielded.

For now, the sea witch took to fishing.  Though she was filled with slow-burning ambition, Izel knew she would have to recover from her travels to succeed.  Spry brown form could be seen slipping in and out of the waves before she emerged victorious with a large trout.  She placed the spotted creature between her thin front wrists and splayed her sand-packed toes, then began to srip the carcass of its meat.