Stavanger Bay and the fire with all the strength it hath

For @Qilaq - tagging Sizzle for vizzlebility

She did not know the pain in her body; felt only the subtle weight in her jaws. If she were a saner woman, she would know that her paws bled into the sand she trod upon, and that her nose was cracked and raw and dry. She would know that her belly ached and her bee stings sweltered, and that she was very near to the end of her rope.

But Doe was not a sane woman. Her own name was hardly familiar to her, and the earthly body she inhabited was no more than a tool she used to meet the demands of a life lived largely in the terrifying muddles of her own mind. She knew no pain; only the warm weight of her girl.

The sun beat down, sapping the last dregs of her strength as she made it to her den. @Szymon would have been better for the task of taking this burden, but Doe had insisted he ferry home the herbs instead; the girl was hers to carry - Skellige had made that clear.

Setting the girl upon the precious fawnskin that her love had gathered for her, Doe quickly set about cleaning the slobber from her fur and snuffing over her tiny body with fussy determination. If it was the last thing she did, Doe would see the girl become well and healthy.

"Sweet lamb," she crooned, her voice low and sweet as she settled herself around her girl. "Do you have a name?"

Qilaq had fallen asleep once more in the embrace of the sweet woman and had remained asleep for the majority of the way to the bay. It hasn't been the most pleasant of sleep but her body had been much too tired to fight back. The rest of the trip being made while she's awake is silent, on her part, and she doesn't move more than she has to. The pain in her stomach gives her further discomfort, but the hold Doe has on her prevents her from being able to vocalize her need. 

When an eternity seems to pass, she's finally set down and not picked up again. A tongue touches her and she leans her head back into the caress and groans, the skin sensitive and sore. Qilaq squirms to try and get away, but only by a few inches, as agitation sets in. Her body feels heavier than it has and the woman won't let her be long enough to gather herself. Her limbs give out beneath her and she collapses to the ground, no longer fighting the overstimulating grooming. Her head rests between her paws and eyelids become heavy, unable to keep them open for more than a few seconds. She isn't sure how to ask for food, to fix the pain in her belly, so she curls up at the woman's feel instead and waits. 

The other wolf's voice soothes her and she uncurls just enough so that she can scoot back toward her, and rest her head close enough that she's touching one of her legs. A word weighs heavy on her tongue and Qilaq isn't sure how it managed to get there, but she knows she has to get rid of it: "Qilaq."

The Blackrock beta quirked her ears as the strange word fell from her girl's lips. Quil. It was not a proper name, but Doe was content to leave it be - at least for the moment. Her body felt as heavy as her girl's, and she allowed her head to rest upon her paws for several long minutes, simply catching her breath and basking in the familiar scent of home. It was good to be back, and something of a relief to have her identity back, however little she had of it. To be Doe or Atoll was still to be, but she felt that Atoll was a more up-to-date version of herself.

That in mind, she assumed the proper identity and pushed herself to her paws, arching her back and calling up her last meal for her girl. A pile of partially-digested raccoon rose out of Atoll's stomach and emptied itself onto the sandy floor of her den, the edges of the sludgy pool touching her precious fawnskin. It did not matter to the woman - gifts were meant to be used, and used until they were used up. The rug would be no different, although she cherished it while it lasted.

"Rouse yourself, Quil," she said firmly, stepping back and sweeping her eyes over the den. With a pleased swish of her tail - for there were no poisons within reach of her little teeth - Atoll turned and exited the den, heading for the nearest cache. Szymon, as always, had stocked this one not only with plenty of his salty seafare, but also with her preffered warm-blood cuisine. This time, though, Atoll selected a long, pink-fleshed creature. The scales were still moist and slimey, just the way Atoll liked it, and the salt would help to rejuvenate her, so long as she took care to drink water with it.

The Falls of Donnelaith were happy to quench her thirst, and she took the time to dip her nose in honey before returning to check on her young charge.

When she moves, Qilaq's body slumps back with the empty space. She lingers near sleep, but not quite there, and her eyes slowly open to see her regurgitate a mess on the ground nearby. She doesn't move at first, staring at it like she might be confused, but she moves seconds after the command—whether or not the words had been the cause remains uncertain—and she nearly buries herself into the meal. 

Qilaq inhales the mush on the ground until nothing is left, feeling a sudden turn in her stomach. Her face twists and she takes a few deep breaths to try and settle herself to keep her from returning the meal. She licks her lips a few times and sighs once before turning her head to search for her guardian. 

Pale eyes widen when she's no where to be seen and the girl struggles to stand, feeling herself sway back and forth a few times before she's sure she won't topple over. A confused whine escapes her throat and she moves a few steps in several directions, almost afraid to step near the exit.

Atoll did not know why she felt the need to posess things so fiercely. Truthfully, she did not recognize it as a need or drive at all. She merely wanted, and and wanted in this way since she was a very small thing, owned by others as she now owned little Quil. And when she saw that her charge had risen from where the woman had left her, a great fear came upon her that was difficult to quash.

But she did not snap at the child, or pick her up and place her back where she belonged. Compassion for the girl won out over her need to own, and she merely laid herself in the entrance to hers and Szymon's home, blocking the mouth of it like a dragon gaurding its princess.

"What do you seek, Quil? I will bring it to you," she said sternly, craning her head in an attempt to meet the girl's eyes. She was a strange little puppy - not as large or loud or energetic as the sons of Riverbone. This was no daughter of his, obviously, but Atoll hoped she could make her a daughter of the sea.

Worry touched the edges of her mind once more as she thought of The Drop - a fete her girl would surely have to face sometime very soon. She would speak to Skellige, and see if it could be postponed until the babe was in better health, but aside from that, Quil would be at the sea's mercy.

She hadn't seen Doe leave the den, wrapped up her in her own needs,l of hunger, and she feels a lump form in her throat. If she hadn't been so needy, maybe she wouldn't have been left alone. Maybe she'd still be here, next to her, and instead she'd managed to do the exact opposite. Is it why her parents hadn't come looking for her? Had she been too needy for them? She tries (and fails) to swallow the lump in her throat and the threat of her meal returning remains in the pit of her stomach, twisting the contents enough that she might spill them.

But then she turns her head when she catches a glimpse of tawny fur from the corner of her eyes. Qilaq's face brightens in a mix of relief and fear as she stumbles forward, legs giving out beneath her and she crashes into the woman. Qilaq stays in a heap for a few seconds before she untangles her limbs and buries herself into the woman's soft fur. Tears had welled up in her eyes and spilling over only to dampen her multicolored coat and she keeps herself pressed up close should the other move to leave again.

Atoll's heart went out to her little girl - the situation had to be new and frightening to her, and yet, she'd been very cooperative throughout the whole thing. Atoll gave the girl a placating lick before simply staring down at her in bemusement.

"Don't despair," she said after a moment, her tone brokering no room for argument. "I am here for you, little wolf. I am your Amayo - den mother. No harm will reach you here."

What a weak, pitiful soul! The girl's weeping grated at the beta, stirring up her own sorrow as well as compassion. After all, Doe knew better than anyone what it was to have one's life uprooted. Sometimes, it was difficult to accept such change. She could only hope that the crying would be finished here, and she would emerge stronger on the other side of her woes. Doe had done that - had become Atoll, and come one step closer to owning herself.

The last step, though, she thought without bitterness, a sense of peace enveloping her as her mind grew lazy with sleep. I do not think I will ever be strong enough to win myself from Skellige, and why would I want to be? He is a wonderful master.

One last time, her tongue reached out to brush the babe's inky brow. And I will be a good master to you, little girl. Perhaps you will never be strong enough, but it does not matter. I will care for you as Skellige has cared for me for as long as it takes - even if you never learn to own yourself.

Atoll never had.

Qilaq doesn't move for several long moments, burying as much of her awkward body into the small wolf. With deep breaths, inhaling the grey woman's scent, Qilaq is able to settle herself enough that her tension begins to subside. There are questions in her head she isn't sure how to vocalize and the word Amayo suddenly swimming in her head that she doesn't know what to do with. Pale, grey-blue eyes peel away from the salty fur to look up at the wolf that had rescued her. 

Amayo.

She swallows a lump in her throat, shuffling her front feet so she's able to sit up. Her limbs feel limp, locking at the joints to keep her upright, as the food in her belly settles her long awaited meal. The matter of sleep remains right around the corner, but now that she's relatively comfortable—her former worry long gone—she's ready for Amayo to take her home, or her parents come to her. Slowly she lets her front legs slide back down and her head on the ground to wait for the inevitable, dull excitement in the back of her mind that she'll be reunited soon.

If she'd known the thoughts and emotions the were going through her puppy's head and heart, Amayo would have been quick to squash them. They will not come for you - they would have been happy to see you eaten by that beast, if I had not taken you in on my mercy. Only I and my pack care for you, now.

But she did not know - had no way of knowing. As far as Amayo was concerned, the pup was hers. She did not wonder where it had come from any more than she wondered where she herself was from. Such things did not concern her, and oftentimes, went far beyond what her scattered mind was capable of processing.

For the moment, she was particularly lucid. Her attention on the pup was absolute, and she was acutely aware that her little charge wanted something - and Amayo wanted to give it. Whatever the girl desired, she wanted to be able to fufill.

"What is it? Tell me what you want, Quill," she said succintly, admiring the dark fur her babe had come clothed in, and ignoring the worrying milkiness that still lingered in her eyes. It was just weariness, and that would fade in time.

As much as the girl wishes to ward off sleep a little longer, she thinks she might feel better if she does for just a little while. Amayo will wake her up when they get here, or they're ready to go, and Qilaq doesn't push for much when she wants it. She closes her heavy lids then and snuggles up close to the tawny woman, as she lets herself relax enough that she can fall asleep.

Doe speaks to her and Qilaq shifts her weight to further plop and make herself comfortable. She closes her eyes then, her body becoming heavy—this she cannot stop—and sleep remains just on the horizon.

"Papa," she murmurs then, into her fur, as she drifts off into slumber.

When in the presence of the small inkblot, Szymon found his tongue too heavy and thick to form coherent speech; she confused him, arousing new, unsettling feelings that he had no explanation or coping mechanism for. His natural wont was aggression, but even he knew that was an inappropriate reaction — and he could control it, but it emptied his reserves of effort and patience. While Doe ferried her baby back to the bay, her mate-to-be had wandered as far as the salt flat and had brought back gifts for both Doe and the little sea urchin — it pleased him to provide for the plucky witch doctor, and perhaps if he employed the same tactics toward the fragile foundling, it would provide him some insight on how to interact with her. He didn’t know how to make her whimpering stop once it started; he didn’t know how to please her or whether it was his job to try.

He didn’t know much of anything.

In his mouth he brought a coconut, dried out and drained of its juices by sheer osmosis — the salt had drawn all of the moisture out, leaving a hollow shell. Clumsily he hauled it back to the bay with him, holding it between his paws and using his tongue and teeth to poke all manner of goodies through the hole at the top of it — sweet-smelling herbs and grasses, pebbles, shells. Perhaps the child would like to roll it about, creating a delightful rattling sound — and perhaps she would reject it entirely, which would give Szymon at least some clue of what she needed from him. Rolling around the coconut would help with her coordination, and when she was older he would fill it with sand to help her strengthen her muscles. He was determined she would not suffer his fate. She needed to build strength for the Drop if she wanted to survive it. To that end, he ran down a fat rabbit for Doe and swept a glistening surfperch from the sea. He didn’t realize she’d just eaten.

He also didn’t realize he was interrupting.

Lastly he’d brought an infusion of stinging nettle for Doe’s bee stings, which had been an adventure in and of itself. He dried the leaves by laying them gingerly out on a flat rock, then soaked them in water he’d kept in the summer sun — it had taken the better part of the day, but he worried she would grow sicker without it. It was this task that had occupied him while she was out finding the child, and it pleased him now to tend to her. He chuffed to Doe, nothing that the small creature beside her had already drifted into slumber. Burying the fish in a nearby cache, he nosed the rabbit toward his bright-eyed Chosen One and set the infusion before her. He found he could not ask the questions that swam within him; he wished only that she would eat and drink what he had provided her.

She was so weak. Amayo held her breath as the girl knitted her thin, gangly limbs into the fur of her chest, worried that any sudden movement might ruin the delicate web of skin and bone that Quill appeared to be made out of. The Blackrock beta worried, now, about what The Drop might do to her poor child. It seemed unfair to toss her into the Wickedness in such a state - she was hardly a proper offering, either way. Perhaps Skellige would see this, too. But perhaps not.

Finally, though, a breath of the child cause Amayo to quirk an ear. Papa, she said, and like magic, Szymon appeared.

Although she had eaten her fill, the journey she'd undertaken had left her body diminished. The sight of the rabbit awoke hunger in her once more, and she snagged it without a second thought, though she was careful not to jostle the girl that slept against her breast. A growl of thanks was all she spoke to her love until all that remained of the rabbit was its silken pelt - perhaps they could make a gift of it for the child they had obtained.

"She will not survive the Drop," Doe declared, her voice a careful sotto in the dark of the den. "She is not strong enough - the Wickness will claim her if we do it now. Do you think our king could be persuaded to wait, or shall we send this meager offering to our god?"

What Szymon said, she would do. This was not the religion she had been born into, and she did not know what would be best pleasing to the Wickedness she now served. But Szymon would, and that would be that.

Judging that the stinging nettle infusion had steeped for long enough, Szymon pushed the driftwood bowl toward his Chosen One. “Drink this,” he told her gently, regarding her with worry for the injuries she’d sustained in gathering honey for Sharkbait. The irrational fury he felt toward the bees for having the audacity to injure what was his roughened his bass timbre to a rumble of stormwind. He wondered how to respond to her question. Looking down at the small, dark creature — more malleable than the panicked golden child who was flighty and untrustworthy at best — he considered their options. The Sea had not given Qilaq to them — not yet. And if the little sea urchin was truly meant to be theirs, no period of waiting would change the outcome. Throw her to the waves now or later, what would be would be. “She can walk,” he pointed out slowly, though there was a part of him — buried deep, the scar tissue around that muscle grown so thick it could not truly be felt or classified — that balked at the thought as much as Doe did.

Thoughtfully he regarded the precious bundle the odd-eared woman cradled so ardently, “She is thin, f-frail, but her spirit is s-strong,” stated the black-banded Cairn staunchly. Qilaq had been strong enough to choose Doe. He had witnessed it in the meadow, when the wee creature had set aside her fear to go to the golden-eyed witch doctor. He did not know that she had done the same even in the presence of the large, dark wolf, but it would only have emphasized the point he was about to make. “She Chose you, l-lovely girl, even as I did.” For these reasons alone, “The Sea would find her pleasing.” The words rolled slowly off his tongue as he cuddled near to her, his teeth delicately removing what stingers remained and setting them upon the rabbit hide. He would clean it later and prepare it as he had prepared the fawn’s hide, but for now he wanted the venomous things out of Doe’s fur and out of Qilaq’s reach.

“You alone c-can ask Skellige to s-stay his hand,” Szymon admitted, spitting a few more stingers onto the rabbit hide. “Ask the S-Sea what she would t-take and I will help you get it.” The wounds above his right hock were as good as healed now, though the scabs were ugly and the fur was in a haphazard state of regrowth. He felt well enough to hunt, to bring back whatever was required of him. Perhaps they could make some sort of sacrifice as a temporary offering — at least until such time that Doe was assured of Qilaq’s survival. “It m-must happen if she is to be ours.” Ours. That was a funny little word, wasn’t it? “M-Mine, too, Doe?” he questioned, probably a stupid question, but given Doe’s generally possessive nature and his status as not-her-mate-yet, he felt he had to ask it.

Doe dipped her head agreeably at his command, and lapped up the infusion he'd presented her. The taste was familiar, though it took a moment to place. Clever boy, she thought fondly when the particulars of the mixture came to her, and she canted her head forward to press a quick lick against his cheek before stilling her ears to better listen to whatever wisdom he was willing to share.

And what wisdom, she purred to herself, comforted by his level words. No matter what happened, she would be safe. The sea would take her into her own bossom, or Doe would tend her here on the land. Too, her heart was warmed by his unassuming compliments, and by the reminder of his love for her. As easily as that, all her doubts were washed away. Yes, she would speak to her lord and inquire about postponing the Drop, but it no longer weighed on her as it had. Whatever happened, it would be the will of the Skellige and, more importantly, the Sea.

His question, though, was more folly than wisdom - at least until Doe remembered that they had not yet spoken those sacred words. For a moment, she stared hard into his eyes, her own burning with the intensity of her devotion to him. The words came to her once more, and she ached to speak them aloud and to hear them being spoken to her in turn -I will dwell with you, making your den mine and my family yours. You are bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, now and forever.

Surely, the words would sound all the sweeter in Szymon's rich bass.

"Everything that is mine to give, I give to you," she said in lieu of the Words of Power, though they carried the same weight in her own heart. She hoped that he, too, would hear the promise in her voice.

Szymon did not turn away or flinch at the heated intensity within Doe’s golden eyes; they glowed, alight with the rays of the sun, and captured him wholly. He drew breath in a slow, measured way, and held it for the duration of her unspoken vow and the length of her ponderous words. He was not so eloquent as his Chosen One, but he mirrored the promise back to her in his own fashion: “You are mine,” he rumbled, his bass timbre nearly shaking with the conviction of his feelings, “and all I own — and all I am — is yours.” There was, of course, the implicit caveat that both of them were fanatically devoted to Skellige and to the Sea, first and foremost.

Casting his scarred muzzle toward the little sea urchin, he grazed the crest of one thin shoulder and its inky velveteen with his nose. “I will l-learn,” he promised the witch doctor, “to c-care for her.” He could not precisely say, “I will learn to care for her as I care for you,” for it would have been a lie. The feelings he harbored toward Doe were unique and singular — but he would learn to feel a separate, fervent need to protect and provide for Qilaq. Without his knowing it, he already felt a measure of this, betrayed by the gifts he had brought with the scruffy foundling in mind. The small, defenseless creature set the youngest Cairn’s nerves on edge, but in time that agitation would change, melting and reshaping itself into a poor parody of paternal worry. Szymon, at this point in his young life, could offer the little girl nothing more.

It had been building for some time, now. The woman could not rightly say even something as simple as how long she'd known the golden-hearted man before her, but truth of some things rang out more clearly than ever. Amayo, Atoll, Doctor, Doe - it did not matter what they called her or even what she called herself. What mattered was that Szymon was right, he got it. In the end, what was she but his? Yes, she served the sea. She answered to Skellige. Hind had bourne her, Riverbone loved her, and the pack needed her - but she would always belong to Szymon.

Setting a paw over his and and leaning forward to give his cheek another tender lick, Doe spoke the words that'd been burning in her throat for the better of two weeks, now. Perhaps the time would never be right for them to make their Vows, but at least they could always have this.

"I love you, Sy," she told him - not needing any answer. It was enough that he knew.