Stavanger Bay the Cairn Kiln

Like Szymon, Qilaq, and many generations of Cairns before them, it was time for @Whiskey, @Julep, and @Isengrim to be cast into the gaping maw of the sea. Once again, Doe climbed to the highest point of the Bay before tipping back her head and calling for her children, and for @Skellige and @Szymon as well. She called for her husband to feel his support, and for their leader because she thought he might take this opportunity to have @Piralux cast into the sea as well.

Come and be tossed into the ocean! Yay! Also, Doe is up on some relatively tall cliffs. Let's assume that it'll be a tough-ish climb for the kids, but not impossible. Picture for reference:

isengrim proudly marched behind his mother; while he was unsure of where they were going, he knew it was somewhere important. occasionally he'd worry julep and whiskey's heels with sharp nips (even prialux was not immune to this form of torment), but as the climb grew higher his energy drained. when at last they crawled to the summit he was keenly aware that he was tired, miserable, and cold.

the wind here was harsher than any wind he had experienced before; in awe he overlooked the thundering seas below them. he didn't know it, but this very vantage the name for their territory -- below him the sea roared and clamored with more force than anything isengrim had ever witnessed before.

feeling somewhat of a daredevil (and not at all cognizant this was the reason why he was here) isengrim clambered towards the edge boldly, casting his sister a somewhat taunting grin: betcha won't get as close to the rim as i am, his expression seemed to say.

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Szymon brought up the rear of the small gathering, determined that this time would be different — specifically, he would make sure Doe stayed on the ledge as she was meant to by any means necessary.  Agitation and worry wrenched his thornridden heart as memories of his first daughter — his foundling, child of his heart — began to surface.  He had searched for Qilaq with no luck and her scent had begun to grow stale and weak.  It was the young father’s way to look for blame in times of strife, and he placed the whole of it on young Rannoch.  The grayscale deserter had been a promising warhound and of particular interest to Skellige, and despite the threat he had posed to Szymon and Doe’s cubs, Szymon had begun to train him in the Cairn way of life.  To be repaid in such a way was insulting and, in Szymon’s critical eyes, unforgivable.  Perhaps Rannoch had been a spy for Ksenia, gleaning information to carry back to her — paranoid suspicion was Szymon’s lot as much as it was Skellige’s.  At the heart of it, though, Rannoch’s abandonment of Qilaq was the reason behind Szymon’s simmering fury.  If the turquoise-eyed wolf ever returned, Szymon would exact his punishment with relentless force and fangs that lusted for sweet crimson vengeance, for in leaving without a word, Rannoch had stolen something that belonged to the black-banded patriarch: Qilaq’s happiness, and ultimately, Qilaq herself.

These thoughts were pushed forcibly aside as Szymon rearranged the disgruntled set of his mouth into something familiar: pride.  Today his cubs, blood of his blood and flesh of his flesh, would be tested against the Sea.  Weaving his way carefully to stand alongside his mate for his own sanity as much as hers, he nibbled softly at her cheek and then turned to his brood: Julep, Isengrim, and Whiskey.  He kept a watchful eye for the newest acquisition and her keeper, but truth be told, Szymon found himself most drawn to his immediate family.  A desire to have them be fierce and worthy of honor in his brother’s eyes eclipsed what he felt for the new cub — who, if Szymon went by the current track record, would eventually leave as Sharkbait and Rannoch had.  Szymon, despite his fanatic loyalty and blind devotion, had never really commanded the respect of the Leviathan or his subordinates in a way that satisfied his Cairn greed.  His children, he was determined, would become what he sometimes felt he never could: worthy of Skellige’s praise.

A low growl rippled from the Argosy’s throat as he bent his head to his children, roughly grooming his son and daughters to bolster their strength and warm them, being careful not to prematurely chuck them from the high cliff.

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She stayed close to her father's strong legs, encouraged by his gentle touch to follow her brother and sister up a hill to a place she'd never been to before. Up there, both mom and Grim looked comfortable, perhaps too comfortable, and Julep herself did not want to miss any bit of the fun. She sprung herself up to her brother, reacting to his daring smile with one of her own, and taking one step even further than he had, almost slipping off the edge. Fear took her the moment she realized how high she was, sending herself several steps back in utter shock. She looked at Grim with big, scared eyes, and up to her parents with fear. She just wanted to go back to the beach now and play with daddy.

Whiskey was the last to join them, always lagging behind her more robust brother and sister. Doe's heart lurched when she saw how the girl seemed to sag, tongue lolling out as she tried to catch her breath. It did not bode well, but making this climb was as much a part of the Drop as entering the Sea. They were Cairns, and if they could not handle the rocks, then perhaps it would be kinder to end their struggles here.

Doe pushed those thoughts away, along with the bitterness that welled up with them. "Don't be frightened, Jule," she said softly, crouching down among her offspring, so that she might look each one in the eye. "This is a special day. You will enter the Sea, like Papa did when he was small. All you need to do is leap as high as you can, and when you get to the water, just swim to our voices. I know that you can do it," she explained, looking only at Julep and Isengrim when she said the last sentence, so that she would not lie to Whiskey's face.

Tacking an ending on this. Rest in peace, Whiskey.

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It took some coaxing, but eventually all three cubs were reduced to mere specks of white in a maelstrom of cobalt, barely discernible from the whitecaps that tried to drag them under. Szymon raced down the cliff to the shore, lacking the cold implacability that characterized his ilk, and in that moment decided that never having another litter would be a fine thing if it meant never having to endure the heart-wrenching ritual again. He waited tensely beside Doe, keeping one eye on her and the other on the waves as he awaited the Wickedness’ verdict, and when Isengrim flopped ashore in a gasping, coughing mass the anxious father got to work warming the boy. He and Doe laved the salt from the gunmetal gray boy’s fur and rubbed him roughly to promote blood circulation. Doe tucked her body around her son, and the wildness in her yellow eyes bred an answering frenzy in her bristling mate. Where the hell was Julep? Szymon turned his head toward the sea, peering helplessly out into the waves as he waited for his little girl.

When she arrived, though, he didn’t feel any better.

At first the black-banded Argosy felt the worst had surely happened: the Sea had not accepted Julep, shoving her dead body to shore in utter rejection. The fiery little tiger didn’t seem to be breathing, and water spilled in a pinkish stream from her nostrils. “No,” he breathed, dropping heavily to her side.

He pressed one tattered ear to her unmoving chest —

— it’s my fault — I’ve always been the weakest — I killed my cubs —

— and found her heart still beat.

“Julep!” he snapped, losing his patience as he tried to rouse her — tried to make her breathe. He cleared the bloody fluid from her nostrils with his tongue and pressed his cheek again to her tiny breast. Unless she breathed, he wouldn’t be able to tell where the blood was coming from — if it was somewhere deep inside that was wounded or merely a burst blood vessel in her nose from the impact. “Breathe!” he commanded her, and reared back to administer a controlled thump to her chest, forelegs stiffly outstretched. Closing his mouth over her nose, he pushed air into her, and then he thumped her again. “Damn it — Julep — if you — ” he gritted out, turning with a strangled whine to Doe. Slowly, as if he was tracking the progress of something flying slowly overhead, his golden eyes rolled up and back and he sprawled woodenly on his side as his body began to rock in the throes of a stress-induced seizure, the likes of which Doe had witnessed at the blessing of the bay. It lasted only thirty to forty-five seconds at most, but it left him ragged and weak and panting. When he came to, blinking blearily, Doe was trying to curl her tiny body around both Isengrim and Julep — and he wanted to tell her he was sorry for this — he was sorry for everything —

— but Julep was breathing.

Doe murmured feverishly to the ones who had lived — neither Szymon nor Doe had expected Whiskey to survive — and Szymon joined her soon after he recovered, his thick tongue unable to form the litany of comfort and encouragement and affection that whirled wildly in his mind. The Sea had blessed his children, and although part of him was alight with fierce triumph, he mostly felt cold and weary and sick.

Throwing back his head, he howled his pride and anguish.

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