Stavanger Bay league of extraordinarily grumpy gentlemen

For @Rannoch! Tagging Skiggy and @Mannoah for reference. ♥
Being vague about wounds because spar is not done yet.

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Szymon’s steps were heavy with weariness. The past week had seen a redoubling of the black-banded Cairn’s efforts to stock the caches and refresh the territory borders; too, he had been preoccupied with making repeat trips to the gyrfalcons’ hillocks to pillage and plunder their rocky home. Plucking the feathers from the fat, downy creatures was annoying and exhausting — but Doe had mentioned briefly a desire to pad the den with something soft but easier to clean than sand, and he could deny her nothing. He found a sense of pride and pleasure in providing for her — a driving force that had encouraged him over the past several months to put on weight and muscle. His framework was and would always be sharp and angular, but he was made of stronger stuff now. Rarely did he slip into the habits of the skulking, jittery beast he had been when he first met his mate.

Sparring with Ragna, too, had been a fruitful experience; Szymon had been taken aback by the small female’s ferocity, though he really shouldn’t have been. It was evident from her fierceness and her adeptness at fishing that she was a sea wolf through and through, though he couldn’t fathom why she chose to live inland. Stretching his sore muscles, he yawned, dropping the bluefish he held so firmly within his jaws. It was an adult — a rare catch, and one to be proud of; he still bore the strikes of its sharp teeth on his forelegs, dried blood painting the frail scrapes a blackish maroon. Mindful of the sharp fins, he picked it back up, hooking the gills on his lower incisors like a proud trophy fisherman as he made his way toward Skellige’s den. The area was thick with the dark female’s scent and another unfamiliar smell besides — a young male cub, if Szymon’s nose wasn’t playing tricks on him. The fact that the boy presented a very real threat to Qilaq did not immediately occur to the golden-eyed Cairn, and he thought little of it.

“@Skellige,” he rumbled shortly, mainly to alert his older brother to his presence before his larger, more ferocious inverse ripped into him for lingering too close to his throne. He dropped the fish’s body at the Leviathan’s doorstep, craving the praise of the salt king for his superior catch but also desiring that the mahogany-eyed behemoth hasten his healing by eating the flesh provided by their roiling goddess.

[/td][/tr][/table]

The voice of a stranger had pulled the large child from a meaningless dream. Despite his now comfortable living conditions, a certain bitterness still surged through Rannoch. There was very little that he could do physically and any aspirations he had were postponed until he was stronger. Truth be told, as time crept on, Rannoch was not sure if he wanted to go escape right when he got the chance. He had revenge to get on the dark Leviathan and he was certain that in time he would get Skellige to regret the day that he had taken him.

It took Rannoch several moments to push himself onto his paws and limped to the mouth of the cave. There was a dull gleam in his eyes as he looked to the pale wolf and he looked from Szymon to the offered fish. “He’s not here,” he muttered. “What do you want?”

[table width=80%][tr][td]

The sound of movement echoed off the salt-caked walls that formed the Leviathan’s cavernous den and Szymon held his ground, his lean musculature held in readiness should the most malevolent of the Cairn brood be gripped by a fit of bad temper. His line of sight was trained somewhere above the cub’s actual height — he had been expecting Skellige himself, if not the dark, unsettling woman — and canted sharply down in surprise with a reflexive curl of scarred lips. Sulphureous eyes attempted automatically to fit the boy into a previous mold — had Sharkbait made a sniveling return? — but the turquoise-eyed wolfling was not the golden child. Nor was he Szymon’s Qilaq or the ebullient foundling Chusi. Without thinking much about the situation or questioning the Leviathan’s motives, Szymon accepted the boy; if Skellige willingly suffered the whelp’s presence, so would the youngest of his brothers. For a long moment Szymon merely watched Rannoch’s stiff movements, registering the salt on his fur and his sullen stare. He had survived the Drop, then.

“What do you want?” grumpily asked the boy, and Szymon lifted a brow at his daring. A shift of his shoulders and a scoffing chuff asked what his tripping tongue would not allow him to do with grace: “isn’t it obvious?” Szymon had called for Skellige. In the Leviathan’s absence, he would bury his gift — Skellige would know it had been caught for him, and no wolf would dare to dig up an offering meant for the salt king. In a deeply unimpressed bass rumble, “What is your n-name?” he asked of the boy, beginning to dig deep furrows in the sand, aided by the webbing of his paws and the powerful muscles of his shoulder that were meant for cleaving through ocean water.

[/td][/tr][/table]

Though Rannoch wasn’t very welcoming to the others in his pack he felt compelled to be in good terms with this particular stranger. In the Leviathan’s absence-Rannoch’s stomach rumbled in form of a plea, wishing for something to fill it up. It seemed as though the pale Carin had the answer to his stomach’s cries.

He perked as the other began to dig a hole for the foreign protein and hobbled forward a step. “I’m Rannoch,” he replied before drawing his tongue over his lips. Though he had never tried fish before, he assumed that the carcass that the other was burying was edible.

Hobbling towards the other another step, Rannoch looked down at the flesh with a looking of longing. “I can keep that for you,” he offered as his gaze lifted to Syzmon.

Szymon gets aggressive about food. ;-; I am sorry.

[table width=80%][tr][td]

The audible clench of Rannoch’s empty stomach drew Szymon’s tattered ears forward upon his skull with fierce alacrity, hackles roaring to life along his neck, shoulders, and spine. His eyes widened, pupils dilating until they blotted out fiery gold, and pierced the boy with a territorial stare that intensified with Rannoch’s tentative step forward. Tensing, the black-banded Cairn set a paw upon his prize and lowered his head threateningly, scarred lips pursing as his jaws parted to release a terrible snarl. Rannoch’s second step wrought a heavy warning snap of Szymon’s gaping maw — the beta’s body language answered Rannoch’s innocuous offer with venomous virulence: no! With the aggressive rumble still warbling in his throat, Szymon took a step forward, looming over the boy. He had offered no physical harm to the turquoise-eyed puppy thus far — in truth, he did not wish to — but Szymon’s stiff-legged stance was a lesson, aimed to force the boy to stand down. Szymon was a chancy dinner partner at the best of times, for his position as lowest ranking wolf had engendered within him a possessiveness toward each small triumph he earned. It was a compulsive instinct to keep a certain order in his life — this is mine, and that is yours; do not touch what belongs to me.

[/td][/tr][/table]

No need to be sorry. <3

The pale-haired Carin responded in such a way that Rannoch had ever experienced before. With each warning that the other offered, Rannoch felt every inch in his being lower further onto the ground until he laid on his belly. His ears flattened and his gaze averted as his tail wagged apprehensively. There was something within in him that urged his body to move even lower and though he could not, the child rolled onto his side to show a little belly, whining in hopes that this would appease the older wolf.

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Rannoch’s submissive behavior appeased the black-banded Cairn, who finished burying his prize in silence and then stretched forward his narrow skull, golden eyes closing as he shook the sand from his pelt and the tension from his muscles. The Frostfur boy had learned well one of the many lessons he would receive from the savage Blackrock warhounds. A low, guttural chuff of goodwill puffed Szymon’s cheeks and spilled warmly from his muzzle as he regarded the boy, the neutral set of his shoulders, tail, ears, and head stating in the simple, atavistic way of the wolf, “All is well.” Licking his lips, the salt-furred male gestured with a quirk of his scarred muzzle to follow him and made his way toward the scattering of intertidal pools. “H-H-Hungry, Rannoch?” he asked in a rumbling bass that caught on the first syllable in an embarrassing way. If the grayscale cub — whose large paws, broad shoulders, and heavy layers of muscle foretold his future as a wolf possibly rivaling even Skellige in size — was hungry, Szymon would teach him how to fish and show him the locations of the public caches. Doe’s private reserves were, of course, off limits.

[/td][/tr][/table]

Rannoch did as he was told, picking himself up and following after the pale Carin. Hobbling had become an art that he had almost perfected, but it seemed to often slow him down. Despite this, the Benthos did his best to limp quickly in an attempt to keep up with Syzmon.

When he was asked of his hunger status, Rannoch nodded and turned towards the adult. “Yes,” he replied easily, a growl accompanying his words as he spoke. He paused then with a sigh a turned to the road before them before adding, “Very.”

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Adjusting his pace to accommodate the young wolf’s abused muscles, Szymon quietly intoned, “You are to b-b-be a s-seawolf, Rannoch, and the S-Sea provides f-for her own.” He made his way to the intertidal pools where he had taught Qilaq to fish and challenged Ragna to a contest of the same nature, deciding that it would be best for the foundling to familiarize himself with the Blackrock goddess’ gentler ways. “Look d-down there,” he instructed, crouching like a hunting cat to peer into the water. There were several fish already trapped therein, and mussels clinging to the rocks. A sea urchin, too, lay insidiously within the depths to sting an unwary wolf.

[/td][/tr][/table]

Rannoch followed after obediently, easily able to keep pace as Szymon slowed. HE had not gotten the chance to really become acquainted with the packlands. He took this opportunity to pay special mind to survey the land as they headed to their eventual destination. His turquoise eyes scanned the unfamiliar lands momentarily before returning them to the leader as he spoke. At the mention of the sea, Rannoch felt his heart freeze for a moment, still not finding any fond emotions for the waters that his new packmates seemed to love so dearly. He shook his momentary episode of panic as he focused the the road before them in an attempt to get he thoughts into line.

Syzmon lead Rannoch to an area that homed several, intricate, tidepools. He had never seen anything quite like it. The other did not provide much time to allow Rannoch to linger on the sights and, instead, directed him towards a nearby pool. As Syzmon lowered himself, Rannoch mirrored the other to the best of his ability, attempting to get the best view he could of the pool. He was quick to find  the trapped fish and the urchin. “What is that?” he asked suddenly, motioning to the odd creature with a strict lurch of his snout.

Rusty. Getting back in the swing of things! Posts may be clunky for awhile. ;-;
Excuse Szymon while he tries to find a way to say, “Pee on your foot, kid.”

[table width=80%][tr][td]

“Sea urchin,” Szymon replied simply, pronouncing the words slowly and carefully. It was unlikely that the boy had ever seen or heard of the insidious creatures before, and for this reason — and a more selfish desire not to speak more than was absolutely necessary due to his stutter — Szymon felt Rannoch required a demonstration rather than a simple explanation. “Wait,” he instructed the hefty cub, “and do not g-g-go near it.” He rose, moving fluidly over the sand to one of the nearby caches, and returned with a thick haunch of rabbit clasped carefully in his jaws. “Watch,” he commanded Skellige’s turquoise-eyed ward, and deftly thrust the cut of meat below surface and directly into the waiting spines. Lifting his muzzle from the water, he angled the spine-riddled limb away from the boy and set it carefully upon the sand, shaking his head and shoulders to free his eyes of salt. With one careful paw, he pushed the rabbit-haunch-pincushion toward Rannoch so the young seawolf could examine it. “They c-cannot be p-p-pulled out,” he said. “It is b-best to avoid them, but if you g-g-get stung, the first thing to d-do is…” One ear swayed faintly to the side with displeasure as he muttered, “You m-m-must urinate on them. It is b-b-best to avoid them,” with disgruntled finality.

Without fear, he brushed the tip of his nose gingerly against one cracked spine. “S-S-See how they c-crumble?” he asked the Frostfur cub. “If you are s-s-stung, you will n-need a healer’s h-help to fight infection — but urine h-h-helps dissolve them.” He gestured with a quirk of his muzzle toward the pool. “Always b-be c-c-cautious. W-Watch.”

[/td][/tr][/table]

He froze as he was instructed and pulled his eyes from the incredibly peculiar creature towards Syzmon’s fleeting form. He did as he told, remaining a good distance away from the urchin, and soon it was shown to him just why he should be wary of the creatures. His gaze widened as he watched in awe as the flank was struck with spines before being returned back to the sandy surface. He examined the piece of , his breath caught in his throat as the realization of just how dangerous this being was crashed upon him.

He nodded in reply to Syzmon’s question, but remained silent as his gaze jumped from urchin to wolf, but, eventually, his gaze lingered once the news was broken to him. It seemed as if urine was the sea-dwellers kryptonite. Scrunching his nose to this news, Rannoch looked to the older wolf and despite the shared information there was a sense of amusement. “Ew,” he chided lightheartedly. “But, I will be careful,” he promised, offering the creature one last glance. “I don’t want you to have to pee on me.”

[tosses Rannoch a fishie]

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Scarred lips tipped upward at the corners, fashioning a roguish grin. “Nor I,” Szymon said with feeling, amused despite himself. Judging the distance between the fish, the urchin, and the tidepool wall, the black-banded beta shot forward, plunging his narrow muzzle below water level to snap at the fish. Due to the close quarters, he aimed only to grip, not crush; when his incisors caught on a slippery fin, he swiftly threw his head back, tossing the fish over his shoulder. It flopped on the sand like a wild thing, and Szymon gave the boy a single, calmly-spoken command: “kill it.” Rannoch would have to get used to the creatures’ slipperiness and surprising amount of muscle before he could catch them for himself.

[/td][/tr][/table]

What happened next occurred in a flash. Rannoch watched on quietly, somewhat bewildered by it all, as Syzmon made his strike and was successful in his catch. He tensed as the creature was thrown through the air, his eyes widening as it landed heavily upon the ground. Without any further hesitation, Rannoch rose as he was commanded. He slipped to the fish’s side and stood at full height as he looked down at the fish.

He wasn’t quite sure how to grab it. It flailed about helplessly, gasping for the air is so desperately needed, in an attempt to stay alive. Tilting his head, Rannoch suddenly lunged for the fish and felt it’s slippery skin land in his mouth. He attempted to land his blow, but it was as he attempted this that the fish swatted him on the muzzle and escaped.

His fur bristled at this and despite his moment of shock, he rebounded and this find snapped his jaws shut the moment that he felt the scales against his tongue. The fish gave a satisfying snap as he did this and, turning his eyes towards the pale male, Rannoch smiled as satisfaction in his catch overcame him.

[table width=80%][tr][td]

Szymon watched with a critical eye as Rannoch grappled with the flopping fish, missing the killing strike on his first attempt but landing it with fierce alacrity on his second. “Well done,” the angler rumbled, stretching out on the sand with his forelegs tangled together and his weight settled easily on his left hip. His ginger-laced tail thumped the earth as he threw back his head and uttered a triumphant congratulatory howl. “Eat,” he invited the cub, “and when you’ve f-f-finished, I’ll show y-you more.” A true seawolf could never go hungry — not when the shores were lined with scuttling crabs and the rocks peppered with clinging mussels. Skellige had deemed the grayscale youth his protégé — and that meant he was Szymon’s responsibility as much as Qilaq was. Without any thought to the very real possibility that Rannoch might one day outrank him, given his greater size and Skellige’s tutelage, Szymon accepted the turquoise-eyed cub. Their lessons together would only expand from here.

[/td][/tr][/table]