Stavanger Bay good morning sea witches

the golden mayfair retires mere hours before the sun's debut most nights, often watching the stars late into the night; it follows that he rises quite late in the morning most days — but not today. his dreams — of snowy fur and ocean eyes and sweet whispered nothings — are pierced harshly by a rather loud voice, startling the boy awake rather unpleasantly. yelling? he thinks groggily, blinking bleary eyes rapidly as he shifts and lifts himself from the ground. no, not yelling — singing. he yawns, bronze-tipped ears folding against his skull as the singing seems to grow louder. it takes him a moment to decipher the direction of the voice, and he sets off immediately to find the offending packmate. he's not certain what he intends to do when he finds the source of the singing, as he can't exactly tell the other wolf to stuff it (as much as he wants to), but he's suddenly overwhelmed with the intense need to know who disturbs his slumber.