Wheeling Gull Isle martinique, that montserrat mystique

She was a fascinating creature.
 
The dark wolf studied her from the shadows – the wraith’s movement not unlike a panther as he began to stalk toward the shoreline. There was a darkness that now clung to the Mayfair’s sorrowful heart, but it lay not directed at the innocence before him – the prowl within his calculated grace was reserved from his militia time with Tartok, and awakened by the realization that it was all he had left.
 
Drawing forward slowly, his presence was unnoticed as the girl danced along the shores. It would seem a crab held her attention – and as she enticed it, his own fiery eyes swept over the delicate curve of her form, noting the feathered fur – tufted ears. She was not pure wolf – but he did not find such a thing a disgrace. He could see beauty in the slender curves of her stark form.. but he was far more captivated by the grace of her nature, and she then bound forward, snatching a gull from the air as it attempted to make lunch with her newfound friend.
 
Rather than find her attitude toward the crustacean off putting and silly, he realized he found her rather endearing. His own stocky form loped forward then, and he made to announce his presence with an ushered bark – gentle, but commanding for her attention. It was then he sidled up to the injured gull, casting his eyes upon it. It was a shame to waste a meal – and he did not believe in the suffrage of animals. It would surely die anyway, and with a quick snap of his jaws to the neck of the seabird, he ended its pain.
 
Uncertain how the stranger would react, the Mayfair cast his stoical gaze upon her – calculating, before he took a pace back, allowing her first claim upon the bird should she desire it.