Oystercatcher Tide Pools of vagabonds and hermits

His own oyster shattered upon the rock pieces, and drifting downward, his eyes regarded the mushy mess skeptically before his tongue swiped at the remains, the tang of salt almost overbearing to the wolf who much preferred the taste of red meat. One ear rounded in the direction of his companion, his own fiery eyes drifting back to the pale man once more. “Their choice in food leaves much to be desired,” he muttered, his own tone sardonic but light. “But it’s better than nothing,” he commended at the end. Tipping his muzzle down, the swarthy male’s gaze cast out for another shell, knowing the nutrition would be needed. “Constantine of Donnelaith,” he offered in return.