Stavanger Bay won't you carry it in

of all places that he's come across since leaving the isles, this is by far the closest to home.

his previous home, that is; its tall peaks serving as guardians to the wide open bay, crystal water sparkling beneath the moon, half blocked by cloud cover—ever moving as the tides roll in and out, a breathing, living thing. the familiar feeling of sand beneath his pawpads, cooled now that winter has come. he can only imagine the fierce heat that it must be imbued with during summer, driving all those who come here into the shallows or the shadows immediately.

wading into the bay, the foam of low tide rolls in, cold as ice, dragging fawn—colored fur along with it—but as desolate as it seems, the sea is still teeming with life. it has to be.

it takes time and travel until he spots a minute ripple just beneath the surface, and the opportunity is taken swiftly, leaping within range and bringing his head down quickly enough to catch the fish. something small enough to catch alone. something small enough that it won't fill him for long if he's to keep traveling like this.

crowell comes down the shoreline at an easy lope, paws finding wet sand without hurry. he slows as he nears the bay, stopping just short of the waterline. in the distance, he can vaguely make out the shape of another wolf.

or at least what he thinks is another wolf. cursed vision. it wasn't all that 20/20 these days.

coming closer confirms his beliefs, and he watches while the feller fishes.

while the stranger catches his meal, crowell momentarily debates challenging him for it... but a yawn convinces him otherwise. he were too sleepy for a scrap!

the greasy pirate, however, does slink closer. wading through the water where foam reaches higher on his legs. turning his head to point his one good eye in the direction of the other and his bounty.

watching in a rather uneasy way.

ears pan toward the sound of paws dislodging sand, fish still wedged in his teeth—eyes narrowed. if this other wolf wanted to take the fish from him, he'd have to fight for it at this point, given how much food he needs and much he's lacked.

no movement is made in the pirate's direction, the traveler simply watching. scruntizing. no words can be spoken with his mouth full, but his ears swiveled forward and the unblinking fixation of his eyes on him is expectant.

crowell lets out a low, ugly chuckle when the stranger freezes, eyes still locked on the fish.

the miscreant takes another slow step through the shallows anyway, careless, water dragging at his legs. that crooked grin pulls at his scarred mouth and he looks the other wolf over without shame.

steady, lad, he drawls, ain’t said i were takin’ it. his gaze flicks pointedly to the fish, then back up again, lingering.

long legs carry the soot dark wolf back to dry land from the shallows, his movement ranging. ye fancy yerself a fisher?

he says he won't take it, but the hunger in the pale—coated wolf's stomach and bones taints his ability to accept that with confidence. as he moves, silver eyes follow, intense and unblinking.

he has to drop the fish to speak, and he does so warily, a paw resting on it to give him the upper hand.

just in case.

considering that i've been doing this since i was grown enough to, yes.

the ocean breeze tussles the longer fur on the back of his neck—or really, everywhere, given the state of the season and its persistent bitter chill.

we only ate fish. shelled, unshelled. doesn't matter. only went after land creatures if there were no fish to be found.

eyes remain narrowed, but he sits, front legs caging in his catch.