Stavanger Bay buzzing of the bees

The days drew on, and the great leviathan knew that his time had come – the claiming of the lands was upon him. Each passing hour was like a ticking of a clock, and he breathed in the brine from the sea with a new sense of purpose in his limbs. The wolves that had gathered with him were capable beasts, and they had done well to prove themselves to him in their short time on the bay. Doe had accepted the roll of Atoll, and had made herself busy with all of her preparations for the blessing. The titan knew that their days were drawing down, and once the waters whispered to him, he would call for his pack to gather and to take the blessing of the mystics. Once they had received the touch of the great ones, and their guides had been bestowed upon them, their claim would be official. The only thing that plagued him was the thought of the nearby wolves of the wood; Deirdre had done well in aiding them when needed, but the wraith was certain that he would not receive the same treatment from the others of Donnelaith.
 
The sands were warm from the light of the sun, and the sea king found himself plodding through them with the intention of going beneath the waves to cool his inky frame. The black rock that was located in the depths of the sea had become something of an inspiration to him, though he was beginning to think that he relied on it far too much. Skellige did not have to be a witch doctor to know that the jagged stone was blessed by the spirits of the water; it was evident in the very aura that radiated from the rock. He had decided to build their pack on the landmark itself: Blackrock Depths. Only those who were true to the nature of the ocean would be able to witness its splendor.
 
Once the touch of the cool liquid had brushed against his paws carefully, Skellige found his mind traveling to his Atoll and the request that she had left him with. The witch doctor wanted to take Szymon has her mate. The news had bewildered him upon hearing it, but he had taken his time and had found that his need was to speak with his youngest sibling. Abandoning his desire to dance beneath the waves, the sea king drew back his crown and called for @Szymon, bidding the pallid youth to come to him on the edge of their beloved ocean.

The sea king’s summons rolled across the bay territory like a cresting wave, growing in volume and pitch to sunder the wavestruck calm with imperious intent — and Szymon was quick to obey, the agitated flicker of his tail betraying the mingled elation and trepidation he felt at being singled out by his brother. Lifting his narrow skill, he howled a brief reply — his deep, guttural bass timbre carried a new note of confidence as he assured his brother he was coming — and gathered up the offerings he had gathered. Whether Skellige wanted to offer these things to the sea or adorn his territory borders with them was his affair, but surely he would see the glory of Szymon’s burgeoning prowess and know that his brother was not spending time in idle laziness. Too, the ripple of muscle that shifted and flexed beneath his obsidian-ribbed pelt was new. Szymon would always be dwarfed in size compared to his siblings, but he was no longer such a pushover.

Bearing with him the gifts he had prepared, Szymon uttered a low, guttural chuff as he approached his brother with a measure of natural wariness — summons or no, it did not pay to let his guard down around any Cairn, even one as beloved as Skellige. Proudly he laid the spurdog at the Leviathan’s paws — the poisonous spines had been meticulously removed but the carcass itself was impressive, stretching about two and a half feet in length. Too, the leathery skin and razor-edged fangs had remained untouched — only the deep punctures where Szymon’s teeth had struck the creature down sullied it. Szymon then retrieved the skull of the mountain goat he had attacked with Charon — any usable scrap of meat was gone from it, but after vigorously rubbing it against sand and stone, and allowing it to soak in salt water and bathe in the sun, it was an impressive trophy. The gleaming black horns were of great fascination to the boy, who had never seen or hunted such odd prey before.

He approached his brother cautiously, his lips curling back to reveal the serrated crescents of his fangs as he closed his teeth lovingly over Skellige’s chin in homage — his body remained low, but lacked its painfully locked and “clamped” appearance. He stood calmly, despite the ever-present flicker of his bottlebrush tail, the uneven lengths of his fur tousled and salt-crusted by the capricious breath of the Sea. Bowing his head, he stepped back and looked watchfully at his eldest sibling, awaiting orders as was his wont.