Wheeling Gull Isle Walk the Plank, Ye Scurvy Dog

Komodo hadn’t expected to encounter a stranger as he rounded the isle’s shores that day. No, strangers were few and far between nowadays — the island entertained such familiarity for him; how he loved it, and how it cursed him! It hadn’t been long since his Minstrels had departed back towards whence they came and Komodo still wasn’t entirely satisfied about his decision to remain. The brute was certain that they were having a wonderful, absolutely fantastic time, for on the road every moment was actually a thousand moments within; a kaleidoscope of what-if’s and could-be’s, the likes of which they had never seen, and would never see again. 

Such opportunity lay before him, in the form of the endless rolling mainland, and he only need to reach out and grab it — but still he did not often make trips to visit and rather gave in to his better senses, retreating to the caverns or simply rounding the barrier sands in order to simply look upon the mainland and wonder what was happening 5 miles, 100 miles, or even 600 miles inland.  While his feet kissed the spit of land that was Wheeling Gull Isle, the earthstalker would never know. 

But he loved the little sheep dog and he was powerless not to support her every endeavor. Furthermore, his service to the wolves of Undersea was something declared by the gods — as good as law. The stormborm wolves had been brought together by nothing more than divine providence [and several days of cruel, tempestuous weather], and he had left once, and then returned to nothing. After some serious brooding on this subject, Komodo decided he must not squander the god’s favor a second time — not often did good fortune occur twice, and three times was even more unheard of. 

If it was the god’s will for him to stay and support Coelacanth’s claim to her beloved island — and the gods were making it as clear as crystals — then Komodo must concede. 
 
Though he had not expected to see a stranger that day, a stranger is what he got. Upon picking up a foreign perfume, Komodo hastened his gait and closed in on the interloper. He made quick work of the distance and soon came to see that Coelacanth, his little leader, had been the first to arrive. The man watched their interactions from a distance — the lick, the gift — and then he pressed forward with his hardened jaw grit and tail lashing. The dappled-coated, salt-strung man did not position himself as leadership [for leadership he was not, touchy subject] but he was certainly above this fellow. Especially one who was far too close to Coelacanth. “Hmm,” the brute grumbled, looking upon the scene with a distinct sense of questioning and simmering displeasure.