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Found a friend (Norway)
The boat rocked and rose, swayed and slipped. Tristan barely kept his feet under him as the water sloshed his rubber shoes slippery. It was only a steel will that pushed through the rain and snag the bars. Rain pelted his scalp when the hood fell away. Rushes of air flushed his cheeks, and he wretched from the seat of his soul.

Or so it felt; and it had felt every single time the vessel heaved on high waves. For the hundredth time, Tristan marveled at his weak stomach even as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He grew up fishing with his Uncle Ulfar. As a man he reeled in great catches from skiffs he managed alone, Siggi pawing at the edge in excitement.

But the great fishing vessels that his friend arranged for his new work in Norway were an entirely new experience. The fishermen told him his stomach would learn the new wavy world, but a month passed and Tristan was less than useful.

His career on the seaboarding vessel came to an end, and Tristan was not saddened by the outcome. He was still in need of work, but Tristan was hardly without skillsets. The small house he occupied was situated at the edge of a coastal town; not expensive compared to the tiny abodes of the inner town squares. Each afternoon, Tristan prowled the area as the light leaned to coming night. Iceland’s nights lasted months, but here, the thin sun persisted a few hours each day. It was an odd change to drench himself in sunshine this time of year.

By the time the earliest signs of spring crept through the wilderness, Tristan was working as hired-hands at whatever odd jobs around the town he could find. His brute strength and easy-going nature earned him a sort of reputation with the town folk despite the heavy accent that thickened his tongue. Nobody commented on his golden eyes, though sometimes the fishermen whispered that an animal like him belonged on land.

He was walking around an empty house carrying a ladder when a scent turned his nose aside. Ears prickled, he halted. Imagine his surprise as he turned to look under the remains of a wood pile and a pair of eyes peered back at him.
"Don’t waste your time looking back, you’re not going that way."
Rognar Lothbrok
Kneeling, Tristan plunged an arm into the shadows heedless of what may bite. No such punishment snapped, but despite all his efforts, his paws swiped empty. Frowning, the retracted and thought again as the eyes buried themselves into the farthest corners of darkness. Fear wafted on the air. Tristan cocked his head aside, letting his own soul coax the currents with determination and hope for safety. “Come on, little one,” he beckoned even as fond memories flooded his mind of Thorn Paw’s security and wisdom. The great arctic wolf knew Tristan as a pup, a wild, bounding wolf running from seashore to seashore. How the ancient one must have seen the ignorant, fearful pup that was Tristan those first few encounters. It was as Tristan now saw another, and he understood.

With enough coaxing, the scent of fear faded and, in its place, wafted curiosity. Tristan smiled with the shift, a toothy, calm smile that glinted the gold in his eyes. A moment later, a wet nose nuzzled his fingertips. As soon as his grip closed on the scruff, Tristan pulled the pup from its hole and nestled its scrawny body to his chest. Work and ladders were left behind, and by the time he reached home, the malamute puppy was asleep in his arms.
"Don’t waste your time looking back, you’re not going that way."
Rognar Lothbrok

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