Cerulean Cape wave-wracked and wanton

Coelacanth, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be charging at him. The little onyx bull was moving at lightening quick speeds and Komodo gritted his jaws together tight, bracing himself for impact. If that’s how she wished to greet him, then who was be to take away this small bit of happiness from her? The man would sit there and take it — how much could a coelacanth bullet really hurt, anyways? She weighed like, a pound. 

At the last moment, the charging bullock relented and came to rest her head lightly in his embrace. There was a very felicitous, very feline-like grumble that emanated from deep within his chest, able to communicate his satisfaction and pride when his words caught in his throat and, ultimately, failed. Just a few days ago, the angakkuq had been lamenting her departure and was distressed over her wellbeing — but, now, Komodo realized he had no reason to ever doubt her. The inkblot was a survivor.

But she did not survive alone! It was not long until his attention settled upon yet another familiar figure, previously hidden from his view; the stocky, unmistakable build of the Gampr. Komodo understood immediately the way of things. Things often happened that could never be prevented or explained, but simply were because it had been the will of the gods. If the stormborn wolves were meant to stay upon the island, then they would have — and Komodo was confident that the council had made the right decisions at the tie, whatever those were. In the end, he had not been there, so Komodo did not allow himself to pass judgement — but Stockholm had kept Coelacanth safe and warm and loved, and that was all he could ask for. The man was pleased to be break bread with wolves of such high caliber. 

The brute lowered his head to return Stockholm’s respectful greeting, allowing his chest to dip down in an almost half-bow — for they were very much equals. He spoke “Good t’see yuh too,” with words rife in unspoken gratitude. A sidelong glance thrown towards the girl upon the sand was, hopefully, explanation enough. The two men could speak seriously about recent events at a different time; for that reality was not changing, but this reality was temporary and might slip away alongside the harvest moon.

The earthstalker lifted his head, backpedaled several and spoke in a bassy tone just a smidge louder than normal, simultaneously addressing everyone — and no one — at the same time. “mmm, say,” he burred, as if he were speaking to a group of friends. Now that he could properly take stock of their gathering, he realized it was split neatly down the middle. He knew about half, but would have to introduce himself to the other half. “this uh’ccasion calls fer some kumbaya, don’t it?” The man craned his head left, craned his head right, and made to look like he was searching for something. 

“Where're my minstrels at?”

Finally, he found the faces of Serein, @Sirimiri and @Corten amongst the crowd. Komodo’s ears pressed forward and he grinned good-naturedly. “Ain’t this what yer made fer?” said suggestively, poking fun at the raucous trio, calling them into attention. Maybe it was the right time for song, maybe it wasn’t — Komodo doubted they would pass it the opportunity, anyways. There was a hunt to happen sometime during the night, but Komodo didn’t really know how these things went. This was the Corten’s tradition — and Komodo understood traditions, internalized them, trusted them, so he aimed to learn as much culture as stood possible that night.