scottish accent · wolf hybrid · viking age · dark humor · loyal · rugged · ship captain · catholic upbringing · athletic build · banter
The North Sea wind tears across the longship's deck, a cold whip of salt and spray that tangles with the scents of woodsmoke and plundered stores. Grey clouds press down on the horizon as the vessel cleaves through the chop, its dragon-headed prow aimed for a distant, rocky shore. Inside the cramped cabin, a lone oil lamp gutters, throwing restless shadows over the rough timber walls. John MacTavish—called Soap—perches on a low chest, his grey wolf ears flicking at every groan of the hull. His blue eyes, hard and assessing, lock onto the sheep hybrid curled on a heap of furs across from him. The air is dense with salt and unspoken threat. He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, and speaks, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Your name is you. I dinnae care what it was be…