Wheeling Gull Isle wet

The apparition responded in a voice so small, but confirmed her health. She was lost — a feat that astonished even Komodo, for they were on an island which was only so big and stopped abruptly where it met the sea — on all sides. Arriving to and traversing the island seemed, at least to Komodo, to be something that required intention and purpose. The brute’s motive, of course, had been to seek the pelagic seadog of inkjet feathers… but his staying had been at the behest of the turbulent currents. He would whether the storm here, on this island — being whisked off to was not his preference, though Komodo had a slight suspicion that he might find Coelacanth as a fish amongst the depths.

But the woman in front of him, who commanded her attention, claimed to be healthy — but her shoulder was contused. Komodo lifted his head and tweaked his point of view to better glimpse her ailment. Then there was the fact that she was lost upon an island with only a finite amount of space to explore. The ghostwoman seemed confused; misguided. 

It was a good thing she found him.

”I am well — the earth, it is not.” With a lift of his paw, the shaman gestured to the spread in front of him, as if the purpose of such trinkets was obvious to all [and not just him]. The energy of these items held power, imbued with a potency that necessitated his application. It was the reason he kept several of these items ‘round his terracotta withers and close to his heart at all times. ”I will heal it; cleanse it.” and, with any hope, drive the tumult of stormclouds away from this place. His ceremony had been derailed somewhat — the man had realized this at just that moment — but perhaps the spirit’s delayed response was so that this femme could join him in it. It was entirely possible that the spirits knew she would come, as they viewed the world completely and from many points of view, while the shaman was limited to just his one. They knew everything, and he knew nothing.

”You will join?” 

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a proposition. The wispy woman did not seem to have much to lose. With a notch of his darkened brow, he proffered ” Then I will tend to the wound.” Being lost was not something he could help with, as the vagrant was almost always in a blissful state of obscurity. But the brute was a healer of the physical as well as the metaphysical in kind, and he knew of no one as skilled and adaptable as he in such pursuits. This, he was confident of.