Wheeling Gull Isle picks himself up and keeps climbing for the prize again

His explorative expeditions had grown slower and more tentative ever since he had discovered that this lovely little island contained such hidden dangers as murdercrabs, murderponies, and goodness knows what else lurking among the secret facets of its jewel-like beauty. One thing that brightened his day and increased the tempo of his feet with enthusiasm however, as he picked his way along the shore's edge and peered carefully and suspiciously down into the clear waters, was the tantalizing taste of a familiar scent that the sea breeze playfully skirled to his nose. He highstepped through the lapping waves, tail flagging high as he trotted in the direction of the wolf he had seen at the last Mitexi. As he trotted up the shore however, leaving a trail of wet pawprints in the sand behind him 'til the scruffy, sunbleached grasses wicked the moisture from his pads, it took him a moment to recall what Seelie's soft voice had called the quiet cloudy-furred male.

He offered the still-hurting creature a wide, gentle smile to accompany the softly-wagging tail. ...Mou? he offered up tentatively. Driftwood wasn't quite sure what to make of the man; the strange male didn't quite seem to be all here, somehow. Drift felt that there was something faraway in the male's eyes, and a certain pensive distraction to his entire demeanor, which made Driftwood himself wonder if the guy was even totally aware of where he was standing here and now. Driftwood could identify with this somewhat, however—and weren't most all of the islanders in the end castaways themselves in some form or fashion anyhow? This particular male seemed to have been even less fortunate than most, however. Driftwood's eyes flickered across the wide, angry scars inscribed deep into the neck and chest. He couldn't for a moment imagine that this reticent and retiring shy thing could in any way have deserved or instigated the events which led to such marks; they inspired only more pity and empathy in Drift's heart, and made him wonder what kind of monster could have done such a thing. It was all in the past, though; Mou was safe and sound now in his new home, and Driftwood knew that he himself was far from the only one who would strive to make sure nothing bad ever happened to this poor wretched innocent ever again.

He stepped closer to offer a comforting nuzzle of greeting and peer into the other's face, trying to divine where and what it was that the strange and silent Mou was seeing in his mind's eye this day. Hello. How are you? he said quite softly, trying to be sensitive to the other male's seeming habitual reluctance to respond and the likelihood that the answer was that he was still in great pain in ways Driftwood himself could only dimly guess at. ...At least when Mou surfaced from his memories and daydreams, even if only briefly, he could hardly find himself in a more restful and bucolic scene than this, thought Driftwood. Assuming the ponies and crabs kept clear, anyhow. Driftwood himself had always found the motion of the waves both soothing and alluring, however, and assumed that despite whatever hardships may have brought him here that Mou would feel the same.