Stavanger Bay gangnam style

@Arturo ♥ I feel like this post is sort of clunky and I apologize. ;-; The title of this thread was going to be more serious but then I watched this.

Sharing a den with the scrappy little witch doctor was a new and occasionally panic-inducing experience. As the lowest ranking wolf in his natal pack, Szymon had never laid claim to a den — it was safer to steal snatches of slumber when and wherever he could. Here in the bay, however, his scent was everywhere — his daily schedule involved freshening borders and checking caches, gathering obsidian for the ceremony and herbs for Doe. He had grown in muscle mass if not in height, and had developed a sense of confidence and security that had been crushed underfoot on the rocky Warsaw shores and never allowed to grow. He was different here — he was more. That being said, sleeping for prolonged periods and at regular hours was something Szymon didn’t do. The nightmares that gripped him were violent and disturbing — par for the course, Skellige might have said.

It was a nightmare that drove him from the den this evening, and he dared not press a farewell kiss to his Chosen One’s brow, for the beat of blood in her veins was tempting in a way he didn’t dare consider. He would never willingly have hurt his Doe — even in play, he retained a sense of control that he couldn’t risk relinquishing. Reckless abandon was too dangerous; though Szymon was smaller than all of his siblings and softer-hearted besides, he had been trained to rend and tear, slash and devour — and he was very, very good at his job. Licking his scarred lips, the boy stumbled like a drunk into the welcoming arms of the Sea — keeping his eyes open despite the sting of salt, he dove underwater until every sound was muted by Her voice in his ears. The inky-ribbed Cairn fought the current and tested the reserves of his breath; he swam, sometimes floating to conserve his energy, sometimes seeking the greatest velocity he could achieve, for the better part of an hour before letting the cresting waves wash him ashore again.

Exhausted from his endeavors and feeling far better for it, Szymon shook his lean, spare frame vigorously and licked his lips.

your post was perfect, no worries! thank you for starting this! <3 the dice rolled evens so a wild arturo appears! :0

 

The Fearghal was himself this evening (night?) and dared not sleep for the fear that his slumber would be enough to rouse the sea witch to stealing his consciousness. A month...perhaps more — time had become a disorienting thing to Arturo since his fall from Ravenshook Cliffs — he knew when Riptide was in control but he did not always remember. Sometimes he simply dreamed and when he awoke the memories had faded into a dark abyss of his mind, erased. He was not sure how long it'd been since he'd last been in control of his own body — and there was never any way for him to decipher what would trigger the sea witch. On top of everything Arturo had endured thus far in these Wilds: first the famine, then his Isle being stolen right out from under him, and now this he was beginning to believe that these lands did not hold a new promise for him but were rather his curse. Yet, Arturo kept going because that was what he did. He survived. He didn't know how to do anything else. Giving up or ending it wasn't in his nature. He was too proud, too stubborn. Too — full of life. Yet, the sea witch's continued presence as a parasite in his mind made the days bleak for the gangster.

This wasn't something he knew how to deal with. It wasn't something he knew how to fix. Maybe he needed a mystic — a witch or something. He wasn't a big believer in religions or deities but he considered magic, at the very least. It had been thought that his own daughter, Devin, would be a soothsayer for the Irish deities his mother believed so fervently in. She was not as it turned out — or at least had never given any indication towards such a gift. The gangster believed in the only way he knew how: with scrutiny and reservation. With little to do he intended to enjoy the night as much as he could, though why he'd chosen the shore for his walk he wasn't quite sure. The ash forest within the Bay brought him more solace than the ocean did, but he supposed there was something calming and zen about the roar of the sea, of the cool and briny breeze that rolled off the sea.

A figure caught his attention in the distance, light colored against the shadows of the rolling hills of sand and against the backdrop of the sea which was darker still. In the shadow of night it looked black and murky. A soft chuff was given to announce his presence so he did not startle the other. He did not immediately recognize him and the scents that might aid Arturo in identifying him were tampered by the scent of seawater. Still, Arturo did not think he was a trespasser and kept his body neutral, an amiability to his posture reserved for the meeting of new (and known) pack mates.

The coywolf’s low, gruff murmur of salutation caught Szymon’s attention immediately; his spine stiffened minutely as the muscles of his body tensed, then relaxed, assuming a position of neutral readiness. He returned the quiet greeting with one of his own — an amicable growl that billowed into a guttural chuff of his own — and cautiously made his approach, his golden eyes flashing quiet recognition at the scent that soon reached him. It was the other unknown wolf — Szymon rolled his sharp, angular shoulders with a measured sigh of blasé recollection, thinking of the slate-cloaked wolf he had briefly crossed paths with. Perhaps this interaction would prove more fruitful. His sulphureous gaze mapped the other’s greater height; the palette of shale, sand, charcoal, and ink; the fiery sunset eyes that shone like bonfires in the eerie light of the moon. The movement of the older wolf’s body was loose and amiable, but Szymon had no doubt that he would prove a formidable opponent if tested.

When they were close enough to be easily heard and far enough to afford personal space befitting a first meeting, Szymon broke the silence. His breaths were measured and even, but the stammer remained, a rusted and rattling lock on the cage of his throat: “I know y-your scent,” he said flatly, pointedly. “I am Szymon C-C-Cairn.” The deep bass rumble of his voice, despite its stutter, was low and unhurried — but even these short statements wrought a tensing of his jaw and throat, forcing him to pull air carefully into his lungs lest he choke on it. The ever-present flicker of his tail tapped against his hocks as he awaited the other wolf’s reply; Szymon did not skulk before him as was his younger self’s wont but stood with tattered ears cupped intently forward. Stutter notwithstanding, he felt calm and easy as he awaited the coywolf’s reply, his roiling nerves settled by the nearness of the Sea.

Arturo offered the ivory male, ribbed with ink — not unlike Skellige's own pattering — a nod when the male stuttered that he knew his scent — bluntly. For the first time in what felt like a very long time to the Fearghal, he was not met with immediate hostility (even such from his own packmates) for being what he was: a coywolf. Someone had finally gotten the memo, it would seem. He was insulted every time — especially by those of the depths, that had sworn their loyalty to the Sea Titan — and frankly he was tired of being insulted every time he turned around. That didn't even take in account his mood of the day — which was nothing short of stormy. Not quite of the lethal state of a hurricane but he was at unrest with himself and accordingly the gangster's patience for others was gradually slim given that. To see a beast forged of his own law and pride broken ...it went beyond piteous. It was little more than dangerous, and now he had the sea witch to contend with. A blow to his pride he could heal from, given time to formulate and scheme. But the broken bit ...well that was a different demon and not one that Arturo was all that convinced he could tame.

Szymon Cairn. His markings had whispered of a connection to the mighty Sea Titan but the sirename confirmed what had already been suspicion within the gangster's mind. “I assumed as much,” The gangster spoke with a terse smile — one that did not touch his fiery eyes — tugging at the edges of his lips. “You look like a Cairn,” He offered in simple explanation despite that it hadn't been required nor inquired after. “I am Arturo. Arturo Fearghal.” He offered his own name, intentionally leaving out the bit about "Riptide" as he called himself. Out of shame and his own anxiety that even mentioning the sea witch's name might be enough to trigger him.

Recognition bloomed within the young wolf’s sulphureous eyes. “Th-The d-d-diplomat,” he guessed, recalling his brother’s brief overview of prospective followers. A Cairn did not bow — not even to his own kin, most of the time, unless he was made to do so — but Szymon stiffly canted his head in acknowledgment of Arturo’s introduction. Had he been privy to Arturo’s thoughts, he would have shrugged his shoulders in stoic nonchalance; it did not matter to the Warsaw wolf whether the Fearghal’s blood was mixed and with what, so long as the concoction provided two things: loyalty to Skellige and reverence for the Sea. It was for Skellige to make decisions as to legitimacy and worth, and he had spoken of the fiery-eyed wolf with as much respect as could be mustered from the swarthy titan. Yet Szymon could not know Arturo’s thoughts — he sensed only that there was a stirring unrest in the other wolf which made him wary.

“H-How d-d-did — ” the youngest Cairn stammered out, as irritated with his stutter as Arturo was with his lineage. He awaited ridicule with his usual hypervigilance but soldiered on regardless; Ishild had been a diplomat and although she could not precisely be called “gentle” she had rained less physical abuse on Szymon because of her reliance on intellect rather than brute force. It would be useful for him — and, he admitted, pleasing — to gain an ally in Arturo. Drawing breath, he looked out over the waves — keeping one tattered ear and the majority of his senses trained on the intricately patterned Fearghal — and tried again: “H-How did you m-m-meet my b-b-brother?” he gritted out, and more importantly, “Why f-f-f-follow h-him?” Could Arturo’s loyalty truly be trusted? What was in it for the Nautilus and why did he stay?

Szymon offered his title — the role that Skellige had assigned him upon his acceptance — and Arturo gave a subtle gesture of affirmation. Skellige had given it a different name, though. A term that Arturo assumed had been carried from his previous home. As Ceannasach was Arturo's recognized title within his Family for his role. Sovereign, it translated to. It all felt so distant to the gangster now: his Family. Even his children had been scattered to the four winds within the Wilds; and currently he was not fit to consider himself to be the “Family's” Cennasach. Not with his mind cracked and splintered. The sea witch was only the icing of the cake of Arturo's ruined life.

The young male stuttered badly over his words as their conversation continued. Arturo himself had never stuttered, nor had any of his children, but he was patient. It was a father's patience he exerted towards the young Cairn. His children may have never stuttered but that didn't mean that Arturo hadn't had to listen through the ramblings of his children when they'd been young and their minds had went in a thousand different direction at a hundred miles per hour until they had gotten to what they'd originally sought to tell him. Szymon's tongue gave him the young boy a release when it allowed him to form his inquiry. “It was during the famine that plagued these Wilds and though I cannot be certain I think he had considered eating me if I didn't give him the vole I had caught,” A soft chuckle left Arturo. He could look back upon it now as a fond memory though admittedly he had never expected it to become such. “I tried to recruit him but in the end we decided on an alliance.” It was that previous agreed alliance that bought Arturo sanctuary in the Sea Titan's ranks now.

“It was apart of the accord we'd struck with one another,” Arturo said and then added (because that alone was no longer the whole truth). “More than that I respect Skellige greatly. If I had to follow anyone — and I don't make the habit of acceptingthe rule of just any — it would be him; and thus it is his rule I follow.” But the truth remained that there was much about Skellige that Arturo did not know.

The chuckle that spilled from Szymon’s lips was warm, rich, and deep, the ghost of what his voice could have been — ought to have been — were it not ruined by the uneven, unpredictable impediment fashioned from splinters of anxiety and neuroses. “P-P-Probably,” he agreed. If it came down to survival, there was no telling what the swarthy titan would do; whether or not he would have eaten Arturo was anybody’s guess, but it was a certainty that Skellige Cairn needed very little reason to kill. A vole during famine was practically a guarantee. The story made sense — Skellige Cairn would bow to no wolf; his botched attempt at fratricide was proof of that. Alliances, though, could prove fruitful, provided they could be enforced. Szymon listened without speaking as Arturo confessed his respect for the Leviathan, owning that he was not the type to follow blindly or without great consideration given to the choice, and nodded when the Fearghal had finished.

“The b-blessing,” Szymon stated quietly, “is s-s-soon. The S-Sea c-c-can be un — f-f-forgiving — as S-S-Skellige himself.” Was the Nautlius ready for the approaching storm? The youngest Cairn’s sulphureous gaze flitted to Arturo’s face, his eyes seeking the fiery orange ones not in challenge or dominance but with rapt attention. “Y-You were injured, w-w-were you n-not?” Both of the new wolves’ scents had been tinged with blood, and although Szymon did not know the extent of their injuries, he sought to prepare Arturo as he had not been able to prepare the taciturn nameless wolf. Arturo would do well to rest and to train and to eat a great deal, as Szymon had been doing himself and urging Doe to do.

The young man chuckled and the sound was a delightful one to the gangster's ears. A small smile twitched at the gangster's lips though it did not touch his eyes. It had been a while since had had smiled true. “It might have even been threatened, I tried to block out the unpleasant and potentially impending thought of becoming a meal,” Well, what did you know. Arturo Fearghal still had some humor left in him. He was not a beast of comedic relief, too serious and too cynical for comedy but it was nice to know that he had his moments. Perhaps in light of recent events being eaten would have been a kindness. It was a particularly dark thought and not one that Arturo entertained. He was still of value to this pack, he was still an asset. Riptide was an unfortunate and unplanned snag but surely the sea witch wasn't without his own uses. There were poisons and medicines in a smaller, separate den just out of the one that Arturo slept in. It appeared to the gangster that Riptide was a true “witch” — for he'd always associated the art of healing with the mystics as his mother had.

Szymon brought Arturo's attention back upon their conversation, making mention of the blessing, and making a point to inform that the sea could be unforgiving, like Skellige. For a terse moment Arturo considered telling Szymon that there wasn't anything the sea couldn't do to him that wasn't already done. The topic naturally shifted to his “injury”. Yes, that was a good word for Riptide. Injury. “My wounds were shallow and have healed,” but not all of them. Not the wound within his mind: Riptide's continued presence was proof of that. “There are some injuries that run deeper than physical, that are not so superficial. There are some injuries that you cannot fix.”

The Fearghal’s continued humor drew another low, purling laugh from Szymon’s weak-willed throat, his golden eyes skimming sidelong to catch the brief twitch of the Nautilus’ lips. “Good,” the boy said simply upon hearing that Arturo’s wounds had healed, but his expression of quiet calm twitched into something more somber at Arturo’s next statement. It was weighted with the futility of one who had experienced such an injury, and the youngest Cairn understood that futility more than he could adequately express. A low, rumbling sigh spilled from his jaws — a sign of weakness that he rarely betrayed, having learned through the years that betraying any weakness whatsoever was inviting trouble. Szymon was not a creature for regret; he accepted his lot in life, his stutter, his need to fight constantly for a place on the hierarchical ladder — and he accepted the fact that one step out of Skellige’s favor or one wrong move in a tussle with one of his larger siblings could knock him to the lowest rung once more.

“Yes,” he said quietly, a rolling shift of one sharp, angular shoulder saying plainly, “There’s nothing that can be done about that.” Nevertheless, “W-W-We can only g-g-g-get stronger,” he said, glancing to the older wolf. “Th-Those p-p-parts of us th-that are s-s-sound must be st-strengthened.” It was the only way Szymon knew — guided by the turtle, he had learned to harden his shell, growing stronger and more resilient with every beating as he learned from the wounds. “P-Pack will aid you, if you aid y-y-yourself.” His golden eyes glowed with conviction — if Arturo needed help, Szymon would willingly give it, but a lot of the legwork would end up being up to Arturo himself.

Arturo offered a contemplative, albeit silent nod to Szymon when the younger Cairn stuttered about growing stronger. In a way, it reminded the coywolf of his mother's favorite saying: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Perhaps in this the two of them were right. Riptide did not bring with him Arturo's death but it was up to Arturo to find the strength to rid himself of the blight of the Sea Witch. For now, he would have to suffer the episodes that would trigger the selective amnesia and alternate personality. For now, he would have to regain his strength. “Thank you,” Arturo offered the pale man with a grateful dip of his head. “I will keep that in mind.” Yet, Arturo was not the type of man that asked for help. Whether it was insufferable pride or the desire to suffer on his own without inflicting his problems onto other wolves was anyone's guess. Perhaps, in some semblance, it was a unsightly combination of both. He could handle this drawback as he handled all the others. He could handle it because he had no choice.

Last post from me! ♥

Without fanfare, “I h-h-hunger,” Szymon announced then. He didn’t, but in a roughhewn attempt to bolster the older male’s confidence, he proposed an activity that would provide a much needed distraction — and, most importantly, food for the pack reserves. Perhaps the black-banded boy was given to a subconscious desire to test the Fearghal’s mettle — an underhanded, coldly calculating, patently Cairn way of thinking — but being Szymon, it was more likely he was simply tired of talking and wanted to do something he was good at. His twitching, bourbon-tipped tail whisked behind him as he questioned simply, “Hunt?” with a quizzical quirk of his scarred muzzle. He knew where a family of mountain goats lived, near the cluster of territories from Gyrfalcon’s Keep to Horizon Ridge. They appeared to have migrated down from the adjacent mountain ranged and could, with some measure of skill, be driven toward the beach to flounder in the sand.

“A hunt, then.” Arturo agreed simply when the pale Cairn offered it. He wasn't particularly hungry but he saw no reason not to indulge Szymon. It would allow the two to spend some more time in one another's company without filling it with conversation. Though Artruo spoke often he also did not mind the times of contemplative and absorbed silence. There were times when more could be gleamed from the silence then words, after all. With a gesture for Szymon to lead the way the two hunted and emerged victors. Though Szymon got most of the spoils out of Arturo took a small piece for himself, tucking it away for later after the two parted ways.