Wheeling Gull Isle the voice of rage and ruin

It is quieter here, deeper into the cave, the thick walls of rock cancelling out the worst of the storm’s screams as Atlan’s rage persists. Never before as Axolotl witnessed such a storm, such wrath and it hinders his ability to cognitively figure out a plan. They are a bunch of strangers utterly trapped upon this Isle with nothing but one another’s company. There is some fresh water not too far away but food has become something of a mythos. Fish that is swept inland is about all he and anyone else willing to brave the harsh winds can scrounge up and he knows it is not enough; he is left with the uneasy consideration of will they continue to band together, to take care of one another or will a bunch of strangers end up turning against one another in bedlam. The hurricane has yet to lessen and Axolotl harbors the dark seedling of doubt that it will ever end. He assumes it has to because all storms end but keeping a bunch of strangers together that have been forced in proximity with one another, tending to their wounds and trying his best to scrounge up food is no easy feat.

Most times he braves the storm to assess it but also to give himself space. It occurs to him, then, that perhaps that is what the pale woman before him had been doing: giving herself space. With that consideration in mind Axolotl offers a slightly sheepish expression, turned to one of alarm when she turns around and lets out a gasp, backing away from. “No, no, it’s — I’m not going to hurt you.” He does not hunker into submission but he adjusts his posture to a more neutral stance aiming to show her that he means her no harm.“I was merely …making sure you are ok.” Or, at the very least, as ok as anyone can be in their situation.