Stavanger Bay maybe they'll keep this snarling heart contained

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South. Ravus continued along his chosen direction once he'd cleared the Dragoncrest Cliffs, following along the coast. His fishing skills were lacking but the seagulls were not though they were hardly enough to fill his belly they took the curve of hunger away. During the continuation of his journey he ventured inland to hunt something with more substance to it though the chilled winter winds and snows had the woodland creatures seeking shelter and warmth in their burrows. His specialty was tracking and that made it a bit easier for him, but also in big game. The once ceremonial commander of the hunt was no fool and knew that on his own he could not take down big game, yet of course it was venison or elk that he hungered for. Just the thought of the succulent, warm flesh and meat had him salivating. He'd came across the tracks of a herd near the Totoka River and though by habit he kept it in the back of his mind he continued south, knowing that he could not instigate that hunt.

The afternoon was chilly, and Ravus' shoulders hunched as moved through the sands of the Sea Lion Shore, the sand dusted with snow, cold and heavy as he marched through it. In the near distance an arch of cliff worn by the sea could be seen, and the pungent scent of a pack was carried upon the salted brine of the sea as it whipped around his face. The scent of the Glaive was long gone from him, replaced by the tangy scent of the sea and salt in the stead of cedar that had once so strongly clung to his fur. Cor's scent, too, was gone from his bastard son, relieving the king of the hassle of explaining to his young and growing children why the commander of the hunt looked eerily like their father. Bastard was not a title, whispered or not, acknowledged or not that Ravus ever intended to carry for long. Here, his parentage didn't matter.

His steps slowed to a cease as he approached the towering rock arch, noting the black stones and urine scents to mark out their borders in the golden sands. He kept his distance, and compelled by an urge that he didn't investigate too much he lifted his muzzle skyward and let out a howl to announce his presence.

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For simplicity's sake, I'll set this for shortly before the birthing thread. Hope that's alright.

The call drew the red woman from the shadows, as if the cry of the stranger had been some pagan summons, and Doe was the creature that was called forth.

Her pelt was wet, slicked back against her skin except for the spiked crown that laid around her neck, which stuck out at all angles after she'd shook the water from her body. She'd just come from the sea, had been praying for her children's safety as their Time came near. The Drop was close at had, and Doe wanted them to be ready. Wanted the Sea to see them as she did, wanted them to be treated favorably by her wicked waves. If they were to survive, they would need every boon Doe could buy them - and so, that morning, the red mother had snatched away a fat sea lion pup and sacrificed it to the waves.

She'd not consumed it, but the red blood of her kill was splashed across her ruddy face.

"Hail," she said to the stranger, yellow eyes raking over his countenance, calculating. "Come and meet me, stranger," the red woman offered, standing just on the other side of the ring of stones. Her tail flagged behind her, half in warning and half in invitation. He would be allowed to cross, if only he would behave.

Tori! ♥

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Once his children were finally sleeping deeply enough that Szymon could be moderately certain of their safety — they were Cairn children, lit from within by a fiery tenacity; no wolf could ever be certain that they would do as they were expected to or told — the black-banded Cairn left the den, stretching his legs, shaking sand and feathers and wool from his fur. A resounding cry struck the air, drawing his attention with an attentive swivel of tattered ears, and he splashed through the shallow, lapping waves at the shoreline as he made his way to the ring of blessed blackrock that bordered the bay. Doe’s scent, growing stronger by the moment, thickened by the metallic scent of her sacrifice, put a snap in his step and a hard light in his golden eyes. He was simultaneously agitated and relaxed by the sight of her: all rust and smoke and long, slim lines.

The stranger, like everything else in Szymon’s world, took second place to Doe on the angler’s ever-shifting ladder of interest — and when the salt-white beta’s eyes first fell upon the thick, heavy musculature beneath a pelt of stormsteel, his mind wanted to see Rannoch. Those fiery eyes, though, and that unique pattern of cream and champagne, prevented Szymon from making a social blunder of epic proportions. He was content to let Doe do the talking, his lean framework easing into a stiff-legged walk as he neared the twain. The warband’s ranks were nearly full to bursting, but winter was just beginning to set her teeth upon the woves — it never hurt to have an extra set of fangs, and this wolf looked capable and healthy. Out of habit, the Argosy paused a few meters behind his wife, but the realization that his actions did not befit his rank caused him to ghost forward until he stood even with her. Tipping his scarred muzzle to the side, he nibbled affectionately at her shoulder, offering a guttural chuff to the wayfaring hunter. There was a hungry, brooding look about the wolf that Szymon approved of — he would make a fine dredge.

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<3

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A small woman approached, calling out to him. The blood splashed across her face drew the commander of the hunt's eye but his gaze did not linger there. The sight of blood had never bothered him, would never unsettle him. As a hunter, as a guardian he'd seen and drawn enough of it to regard it as he regarded rain water: with little fascination. He was used to it and he was not bothered by her macabre visage. She spoke an offer, inviting him in and to draw nearer. Unusual, Ravus considered but he accepted the offer nevertheless. It was as he stepped over the line of black rocks that physically marked their borders, his gaze went to the male that had appeared like an apparition at the woman's side as if she had unceremoniously and silently summoned him.

For a moment, Ravus hesitated, weary. He was outnumbered and for the briefest of moments wondered after her intentions. His ears slicked back to rest against his skull, his posture lowering to show them submission and respect as they belonged to the pack and he was just a vagabond on their lands, invitation or no. In this he chose to maintain his “spoke only when spoken to” mentality that had usually been Cor's favorite command to bark at his wolves. Cor's harsh and tyrannical ways had their usefulness, Ravus supposed as he awaited for the questions that would surely come. All he could hope was that they found his skills useful and that his ineptitude at conversations would not earn him their ire.

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Luckily for Ravus, Doe was quite used to wolves who spoke very little. Her own children were not of an age to speak clearly (even Qilaq kept her words short and sweet) and her husband had never been one given to long soliloquy. It suited Doe, who enjoyed the sound of her own voice far more than any other's. Still, in this moment, she felt no need to speak more than her initial invitation as she shuffled her own body forward to meet the stranger's.

Strength, health, salt, the dusky shewolf noted, snuffling delicately at the other wolf's pelt. She shot an approving looking toward her mate as she stood back, measuring the male with her eyes, now. Like Szymon, she could appreciate the rough, flinty look of the male - he'd do well among them. She could already tell.

"Can you fish, stranger?" she asked, finding that she did have a few questions for him. Two, namely. "What are you called?"

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Appeased by the gunmetal wolf’s eloquent display of submission, Szymon found he had little to add to his wife’s questioning. Whether or not the stranger could fish was unimportant to the black-banded Cairn; in silence, he moved forward alongside Doe to investigate the prospective warhound more closely, finding much to his liking. Young and strong, hardy and already laden with the tang of brine, the stormsteel male would be a welcome addition to the Depths’ ranks — if he had something worthwhile to offer. “Skills,” Szymon uttered simply once Doe had finished, bright golden striking boldly for fiery orange as he bore down on the taller wolf. “How well can you swim, stranger?”

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Ravus was still as the woman approached him, well accustomed by now to being inspected. His posture was tight, solid and still. Leonis had enjoyed making him sure the commander of the hunt had “correct posture” that ranged from dominance to those placed under his little and very short leased command to utter submission before his superiors for Ravus was a solider first and foremost and that was all that he would ever be. Cor's throne would never be his, despite that the same blood ran through his blood and thus he had the best he could have ever hoped for in Aeterna Glaive: Commander of the Hunt. Though he considered himself still the Glaive's commander of the hunt he had forsaken the only title he'd ever had besides bastard and understood he was just another vagabond to these wolves.

“My fishing skills are humbling, ma'am,” Ravus reported, ready to bare his humility to them. It would do no good to lie, after all for they would figure it out easily enough. Ravus was likely to fail more than he would succeed at fishing. “Tracking and ungulates are my specialties but I am not unwilling to improve my fishing skill.” He was quick to offer an addendum to his initial words, offering them in the same breath. “Hunting was always my primary focus but I patrolled the borders of my natal pack, as well.” He could defend them just as good as any other though he much preferred the illusion of freedom hunting allowed him even if it was for a few hours while he whittled away time tracking herds. “I am called Ravus.” Whether it was the name his mother had intended for him, or if she'd cared either way, he would never know. It was Cor that had named him (likely at no small amount of begging on Stella's behalf) and accordingly was the only name he'd ever known.

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"Hm," said Doe in response to his ramblings. She'd caught very little of it, but the timbre of his voice pleased her, and he looked strong and fit enough to learn their ways. Since first sight, the shewolf had approved of him, and this feeling had only strengthed through their short conversation.

But Doe looked to Szymon, deferring to him in this matter. She'd accepted many wolves into their ranks, but not usually with her mate present. It seemed good and proper to allow him to make the final decision.

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There was something pleasing about the way this Ravus stood, intelligent eyes befittingly blank — they were a study in potential energy, waiting to be kindled into flames by Skellige’s spark. “I am the lead angler of the Depths,” Szymon said. It was not a title that had officially been given to him, but few wolves knew how to fish as the Cairns did; and of the Eight — for Marbas, too, was a Cairn — only Skellige and Szymon presently resided in the bay. Catching Doe’s eye with the flicker of a roguish smile that caused a pleased twitching of his tail, he read her approval and dipped his muzzle in a short nod. If Doe wanted this wolf, Szymon would abide by her decision; but beyond that, he liked Ravus — as much as Szymon Cairn liked anyone. “I have ch-children, and our Leviathan Skellige will soon have children of his own — fresh meat is always n-needed.” He considered his options, then decided on a fitting mission for the former Commander of the Hunt: “You will travel with me to the t-taiga to hunt large game. You are a warhound now, Ravus, and you will meet our Leviathan when he ch-chooses. Now — with Doe and me, set your call upon the wind.” Throwing back his head, Szymon howled to the pack, proclaiming Ravus’ status as a new member of the Blackrock Depths.

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