Stavanger Bay he finds wings

for @Moor <3

though wintersbane has kept himself busy enforcing and reinforcing borders, filling caches with clumsily caught seagulls ( he's not a master at bird hunting, admittedly ), seacritters unfortunate enough to have been washed ashore during his combs of the beach, and other small woodland critters, keeping a weather eye on the horizon and a curious one upon the small island he sees in the distance, and the herds rutting in the neighboring sentinels.

it doesn't give him much time to actively recruit ...but wolves come when they are curious and if he can spark their interest; they stay.

unfamiliar scents already weave their way thru the establishing ironclan scent; mingling with umbra's scent enough for wintersbane to assure the ironking that the sealord has been recruiting while he held down the fort.

nevertheless, the ironking seeks out one of these scents now, deeming it necessary to introduce himself and get to know ironclan's newest recruits.

Moorhen had not concerned herself with any alleged packages, thus far. Her brief interaction with Umbra had been enough to sate her and, indeed, sour her toward the company of others. Instead, she did what she had come to do: investigate her true homeland. Her birthright, if some of the other Cairns she'd met were to be believed. Long ago, she had rejected those ties, even going so far as to take on different names and families — but, a little older now, she recognized that these things were just another part of her. Why should she be ashamed?

The cave den had come first: Moorhen stood in the entrance for a long time, breathing a little too sharply at the familiar scent and feel of her childhood prison. She tried once again to see it as a place in the real world, and eventually, found herself able to venture inside. It was a good den, she realized, and so she drug out the tattered pelts and brought in pine boughs and grass instead, and it suited her well enough.

Despite her lack of care for her packmates, this ritual had loosened something inside of her; the borders were now her concern as well, and so this is where Wintersbane would find her, finishing her patrol by lifting her leg on a nearby rock.

(When she was young — so very, very young — she had so admired Isengrim. Had wanted to be like him in every way. Doe became an angry and vengeful God when she caught her in the act of mimicking him in this way, and she had internalized then that this was unladylike, and unbecoming. Moor had squatted many moons even after the woman's death, but in time, had decided that if it was not ladylike or becoming, then maybe she didn't want to be those things.)

Her dark head swung in Wintersbane's direction as he approached, and her quick eyes — gleaming burgundy highlighted by the pale cream splashed under her cheeks — took in his size and bearing in a haughty sweep. A ridge of cream pelage bristled along her spine, but she allowed her head to drop and her shoulders to hunch in a show of reluctant but appeasing submission.

Hallo, she ventured, carefully optimistic that the other wolf wasn't here to make trouble. He was pack, wasn't he?

it doesn't take the hale tundrian too long to discern a scent of 'new recruit' and follow it to its origin. a sweep of his polar gaze is given, acknowledging the show of respect and the greeting — though admittedly, it sounds a bit strange. he wonders if, perhaps like him, she speaks another tongue ( though it's been so long since he's dared to utter tundrian ).

hello, wintersbane returns it with a dip of his head and a small gesture of his muzzle intending to communicate that she could rise if she hasn't already.

i'm wintersbane; the saltking. he offers his name and title in introduction; black, leathery nostrils flaring as he drinks in her scent affirming that she was one of umbra's recruits. you've been accepted by the sealord, umbra. correct? he inquires. small talk wasn't one of his strong suits but it strikes him as necessary and the desire to learn about the wolves that would-be ( are ) his subordinates comes from the right place.

She did not wait long before the male — Wintersbane — cleared up her worries and confusion. He was indeed the leader, the Saltking. An odd title, but one that made more sense to her than ones like Aralez and Akhlut, even if she had grown to like the fancifulness of it.

The great, dark erne dipped her head in assent; Umbra had indeed recruited her — this was true, even if the way the Saltking phrased thus relationship — a possessive, with her being the object — made her want to sniff in disdain. She would have to get over these hangups if she wanted to be a good pack wolf again. It had been a non-issue on the island, where Coelacanth and Stockholm had her deepest respect and devotion.

Perhaps, in time, this man could come to earn the same things from her. He certainly cut an impressive and admirable figure — not that she was noticing or anything.

I am Moor Corten, she replied. In my homelands, I am Akhlut. This means: Protector. Guardian. Warrior. I am hope to keep safe these lands, now. Such a speech was bound to trip her up after so long with such little practice; she did her best to power through when some of the proper words escaped her. These bay, is um, she floundered for a moment. My for. Ata. Um. Daddy. Her lip curled at this word — not at Skellige himself, but at the idea of calling the near-stranger such a name. He loved in these bay. It is for my blood, very important. This is why I am stay, and protect.

That was a lot of knowledge to drop on a perfect stranger, of course. And, while it was all quite important to her, she doubted it mattered much to the leader, unless it was going to cause him trouble. Still, she thought that getting this part of the interview out of the way was a good use of her time and breath.

That, and the icy blue of the man's gaze had left her rather flustered..

The dark fur along her spine settled down, and she gave a little shake as if to help them along. It is good land, and good waters for hunt-in. Do you always live by the sea? she asked him, a little friendlier, and somewhat shyly.

she introduces herself: moor and goes on to explain an unfamiliar title to him that earns a nod of acknowledgement as she uses common to explain them. we can use more warriors. he assures her before falling silent once more as she further explains her connection to this bay. it takes wintersbane a moment; for while he was boorish at times, he wasn’t an unintelligent man and was able to piece it together well enough. this place was her birthplace; connected to her. while wintersbane could not entirely understand the need to stay in the place of one’s birth ( he certainly hadn’t and when he’d tried it hadn’t ended well ).

fair enough, hale tundrian draws. perhaps in time, ironclan will prove to be worthy of you. right now, however, it was just a gathering storm on the horizon. when they hit full force it’d be easier, he knows.

once upon a time, wintersbane would’ve picked up on the fact that she was checking him out; and truthfully she was pretty and he would’ve acknowledged that a bit more in-depth than he did now. losing two loves desensitized him to any idea of ‘love’ or real attraction. if he notices, he tends to subconsciously put a wall up. a wall that worked just fine during breeding season when he wandered and sought the physical comfort of any willing to give it to him ( and littering the wilds with bastards along the way ); though he swears to himself, come this season, he will play a much larger part in the lives of the children he helps conceive.

no, wintersbane admits, tucking thoughts away to focus upon her inquiry. i’m rather new to the sea. he says; but unable to deny that the wild fury of the sea calls to something primal and feral in him in a different way than the mountains had.

Some of the anxious energy in her was converted easily into interest and thankfulness when she was understood, and when the male seemed amenable to her words. He seemed even to hear what she had not said: that she was not at all sure about him or about these wolves, and was only staying so as not to lose the right to walk on her own beach.

It is my want to find you worthy, she said, somewhat chagrined to be caught out. I do not look for reasons to scorn, but reasons to respect. She was not bitter, not too proud to open herself to trust and understanding.

A smile, crooked with scars, spread her toothy maw as Wintersbane admitted he was new to the sea — she hoped he, too, would be open to respecting her knowledge of this way of life, but she did not say this. There is no kindness in this bay, she said instead, which was not exactly what she meant. Her burgundy gaze had wandered back toward the roar of the surf. Many packs have risen, and all are now fallen. She dug her claws into the sand beneath them, scoring it. It is brave to settle here, she finished, seeming finally to decide what she was going to say. She was more direct, meeting his eyes for a moment when she asked, Are you a proud man, Winter?

i would be disappointed if you told me otherwise. wintersbane murmurs at her remark regarding the bay and the lack of kindness he would find settling upon it. to be ironclan is to be ironwilled. i already know the sea will test us plenty. wintersbane assures her. one had to have a similar will to live upon the cold and unforgiving mountains, as well. there was no promise of safety to be found upon either place: seabay or spire.

not even the vale had been kind.

and if the whispers of the birds are to be believed, trouble's been brewing in these wilds. though, as best as wintersbane can deduce: it has yet to find its way to the coast; unaware as he was that the 'trouble pack' hua spoke of was the brewing trouble the birds whispered of.

with luck and hard work, ironclan might be the pack to weather the storms the bay can throw at us. but only time would tell, of course.

was he proud?

yes. the tundrian replies unabashedly.

Moorhen frowned; she knew better than most that the sea did not test; the sea cared nothing for them, nor did the rest of the wilderness. And their will was no match for the uncaring world they lived in. She knew, even before Wintersbane answered, that he was a proud man. These things were concerning to her, but nothing was written in stone. If the bay proved too much for them, in time, she would leave with them, or she would leave alone.

I hope this serves you, she said after a moment, having dallied over her words for long enough to be sure she would not reprove him; it was not her place. Not too proud to learn from seafarer, I hope, she added, her tone a little warmer, less severe. There were a few tricks to learn — the most pressing, at the moment, was learning to kill a crab without being pinched. Pressing, mainly, because she thought it might be terribly amusing to see the great man brought low in this way.

If there is time for lesson, she added, giving her leader room to take his leave, if he so desired.

we shall see. comes wintersbane’s enigmatic response. truth was, he learned long ago to roll with the punches and that the world and life would hold nothing back. not for him, not for anyone. he hoped that the efforts putting forth here, in ironclan, would not to be in vain ( but it wouldn’t be the first time ).

no, not too proud to learn. the tundrian assures her with a small quirk of his lips; amused. once upon a time? perhaps. now? with age brought some semblance of wisdom. his tail sweeps against his hocks as he regards her again, further. what is the topic of this lesson? he inquires; curious.

The quirk of the Saltking's lips evoked a stronger, answering grin from Moorhen. He was not too proud, then, and she hoped she could insinuate herself into his council in order to bend his ear — all for the safety of the pack, of course.

This was a passive thought; more important was the "lesson" she had planned. We will learn how to find best crab, she said succinctly, although the actual content of her lesson was more along the lines of, "learn what it feels like when a crab pinches your nose". She had played this trick on many unsuspecting pups, and she hoped dearly it would work on an older, wiser wolf.

She turned, sweeping, to lead the way toward the craggy coast, a certain bounce in her step the only thing that betrayed her excitement. Otherwise, her bearing was that of a military general, her tail swaying almost in line with her spine and her chin held above the line of her shoulders. Not the most respectful way to walk with her new king, but she was accustomed to carrying herself with the rank afforded to her, and Coelacanth had never asked her to submit.

She turned a mischievous glance on her pupil, but her question was entirely serious. You can swim? It was folly to take a wolf out on the rocks without that skill; they might very well have an uneventful trip, but there was always the very real chance of tragedy.

Later, I ken teach to see wave, predict tide. This is important skill for living by the ocean.

crab? wintersbane repeats; deadpan. he knows well enough what a crab is but cannot see how a crab would be sustaining for him foodwise in any degree. perhaps if he were malnourished and starving he wouldn't be so picky but ...really. a tiny crab was hardly worth the effort to hunt for him. nevertheless, the tundrian follows after her as she leads the way, figuring that, if nothing else, it would be something useful to know to teach his future cubs.
confident as he was ( with no evidence otherwise ) that he would sire his fair share of cubs this coming season.

yes. he responds to assure her. in truth, wintersbane shows more interest in the promise of a further lesson: of learning to predict the tide, as it fell in line with what he was attempting to learn on his own. watching the skies above the sea for signs of storms and trying to predict how bad they might be. i've been teaching myself to watch the skies over the sea, to be able to predict when a storm is brewing and how bad it might be, wintersbane informs her as they walk. the coast was hit pretty bad a while ago. forced some packs to temporarily relocate. he wants to be as ahead of the ball as he realistically can on having the pack ready to seek temporary respite further inland in the event they face something akin to the storms again.
on that thought, he makes a little mental reminder to scout neutral territories for their in-land shelter.

Something in his tone makes her want to snicker, but instead she dons a poor mask of offense. Crab is — góðgæti. Very good to make strong wolf. And taste very fine, she said, and this, at least, was earnest. He was free, however, to remain skeptical, since she did in fact have something up her proverbial sleeve.

This is good, she chirped, pleased to hear that he'd taken an interest in learning the ways of the sea, even without a proper teacher. It showed a certain amount of humility, in her opinion, despite Wintersbane's claims on the contrary. Much can be learned in this way. But, to be good king very fast, I will teach you my tricks. Hérna —

They had come to the shoreline, now, and Moorhen turned her body parallel to it. First lesson is, waves come in sets of seven. Seven wave is big wave, and one wave is minnsta. Baby wave. Watch at back, where water hills form, gather strength to charge betch, she indicated the far, rolling raters where waves could be spotted in their infancy, even as one wave crashed against her paws. She stepped back several paces, and then drew a line in the sand with her nails.

The next wave brushed one side of this mark back into the sand.

When we hut crab, we will use this. Rocks are dangerous under heavy wave, but can hut during small. We must read the waters, and be fast on the rocks, she explained, turning to lead him parallel to the water now, until they reached the place where the pebbly sand turned to rocky tide pools. Whitewater crashed through every crevice as they drew near — waves heavy enough to break a wolf in half, if they weren't very careful.

Some PP; let me know if I should change anything at all and I am happy to!

wintersbane retains his skepticism about how 'good' crabs are; mostly because he cannot imagine them having much meat to them; but keeps reminding himself not to outright scoff that knowing how to hunt them will be useful. desperation was a powerful motivator and, as previously considered, crabs might not do much to sate him, a pup could probably make a quick and easy snack out of them.

his attentions does not stray from moor as she explains the waves, making a mental note that there are seven types of waves. do they follow the pattern of small to large? he asks, not sure how one could deduce if it was truly safe, especially if they were blindsided by one of the large waves. already, the rocks are slick with saltwater and the spray rises over the rocks the tides crash against.

he keeps his steps slow, even; concentrating on his footing. and the tides ...aren't they connected to the sun and the moon? he inquires, thinking that he heard that once somewhere.

Ja, Moorhen agreed, and repeated, one-wave is small, and seven-wave is big. She glanced back at him and made a sharp tcht sound. Do not stare at paws. One eyes is always on sea. This close, at least, and while on the rocks.

They were to one of the little inlet pools, now, able to look down at a churning bowl, the walls made up of sharp rocks and muscles. Moorhen was looking off to the ocean, however, waiting for this set to end. Yes; the moon pulls the tides along with its phases, and along with its path through the sky. She had time to explain a bit about which times were low tide and which times were high, which I don't have time to research at the moment so feel free to fill in the blanks. These "sets of seven" stuff is also maybe bunk? But anyway, soon enough, the window of opportunity was among them.

This is seven-wave, she said, and instructed him to watch the sea while she scrabbled her way down into the still-draining pool. The rocks slid painfully against her paws until she reached the bottom, where a collection of stones had been smoothed by the toss of the waves. These were shifted laboriously until a flash of color caught her eye — her dark head splashed under the surface, and she emerged with a blue-green crab about twice the size of her paw clutched delicately in her jaws.

Ai! she laughed through her teeth as she clawed her way back out of the pool, just as the next wave crashed in with enough force to soak her from head to toe. She flung the crab toward the flatter parts of the beach, shaking out her dark pelt (right in Wintersbane's face, incidentally) as she darted after her catch.

Gríptu það! Gríptu það! she cheered.

she confirms, chides him on where to keep his eyes ( not on the rocks but on the sea ), confirms his next question about the tides and the moon being linked and then launches into a lengthy explanation that he tries his best to follow. having never taken any sort of interest in well, anything sea related prior. even now, it was almost strictly out of necessity. he chose to settle by the sea and so he must take the painful steps to learn what he can to best lead his pack while they occupy this bay.

he braces himself against the water that splashes up the rocks and against him, pelting his face with saltwater that stings and leaves a tang in his mouth, burning his nose — only to blink rapidly and something — a blue-green crab, he assumes — scurries away. he is splashed, again, by the droplets she sends flying, following after her at a careful pace.

he survived the wrath of the sea once; barely. would he be so lucky the next time its dark waters welcomed him into their depths? unlikely. she hurried after her quarry but wintersbane has decided, rather fortuitously, that crabbing wasn't for him. neither, really, did he have a desire to actually eat one. maybe i'll just leave the crabbing to you, eh?

The man's reluctance to involve himself was both amusing and disappointing to the erne — she wondered what about the bay had drawn him, if he did not consider the ocean a proper hunting ground. Ah, she said as she caught up to the scuttling crab and trapped it with a paw on its back. You are tørrmage — Like white snow. You melt in the rain?

There was an arch lilt to the words, but a look of focused ignorance on her face. Sometimes, she could get away with saying somewhat controversial or insulting things by pretending the language barrier was the real culprit.

Try, she insisted, ducking down to catch the crab at its "tail"-end. Holding it this way, it was not easily able to pinch her — but its pincers flailed threateningly as she advanced toward Wintersbane.

her insult earns her a curl of his lips and a bare of his teeth in a lack of appreciation for the comparison of him being as delicate as something to melt in snow. he doesn’t quite understand it but he understands it enough to know she insulted him all the same. back off his body language commands, lest he physically put her into his place. he is still her leader, and he was not the kind of man to let insults slide. if he let one do it, than more would and he’d lose respect. mind your tongue, moor. he snaps at her, tail curling above his back in a brief display.

he had no issue forcing submission, nor reprimanding when needed.

still, moor insists, drawing nearer to him with the crab. in truth, he doesn’t want to eat it. if she — or the others — wanted to dine on them then that was fine. wintersbane, however, would stick to the plentiful critters scurrying about the ashforest within their claim or within the sentinels if he had to. i’m not going to eat that. whisky-steeped voice tells her with finality, wanting to back away from her approach but also knowing by every primal law that he shouldn’t. so, he doesn’t. he stands his ground, snapping at her as she draws closer; polar gaze watching the failing claws with heavy suspicion. you eat it. he challenges.

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