Larksong Grotto Sangilak

Njord gnashed his fangs as words continued to tumble from the pale man’s mouth. The redtail leaned into his forward stance as his narrowed eyes bored into Kigipigak, patience waned.

“Tartok!” he guffawed, incredulous. Njord knew of that clan – a small part of it was woven into his own DNA. He had committed Maera’s stories to heart… and the strong, proud image of Kaertok sat in his mind’s eye. “You canna hold a candle to tha wolves of Tartok. They wouldna want anythin’ ta do with a prick like you!” he spat.

Does anyone even know you've come here, or are you as forgettable to the sea as you are to everyone else! his rival crowed. The words pierced Njord’s heart. Erzulie flashed in his mind. His paws slapped the ground as he rushed forward a few feet in a snarling bluff to test the ground Kigipigak held.

Turn that red tail around now, before you hurt yourself! If only your true colors could shine: I would call you yellow-belly, were it not taken by someone of actual importance! Njord was suddenly transported back to Maeres Island. He was a young wolf, beachcombing with his father, aunt, and brother. Aegir pushed him down into the sand.

Don’t worry, Valtyr had told him, your brother loves you. He just doesn’t know how to show it. Father turned to Maera. Remember how we used to call Larus Yellow-Belly? The adults laughed, but then they looked sad. Among the seafaring Cortens, the Sveijarns stole precious moments to remember and regret their past. Larus, known as Yellow-Belly, was often a tragic figurehead of these tales.

He was shook. Njord had barely spoken of the Sveijarns and their claim of Duskfire to anyone. Had Meerkat told this wolf his heritage? Why would she hurt him like that? Was this a coincidence?

Paranoia made his chest tighten, and the seafarer’s wrinkled face twisted on his high head. “My true colors are tha Sveijarn red in m’coat an’ m’heart!" he said, dashing forward with a swift lunge to either bite or ward off his arrogant rival.