Wheeling Gull Isle Walk the Plank, Ye Scurvy Dog

Coelacanth engaged the boy in play and Komodo further cut his critical, gilded gaze at the unfolding situation. Had the sheepdog not closed the distance between them in a matter of balletic leaps, the brute would have done it for her. That was enough. Instead, she nearly crashed into him and bade him greeting. At her question, the angakkuq grunted roughly, certain that this was neither the time nor place for such things. She spoke the truth, of course, but he’d rather this information be kept for this intruder — he was already acting far too familiar.

Trodding behind her, movements stiff, he followed Driftwood’s question with an interjection. “Y’don’t git t’ask the quest’uns, not when yer on ar’ sands.” Perhaps later he would feel bad for treating the clearly deferential young lad so coldly, but Coelacanth smelled so very particularly good this day, and such prickly behavior truly felt like the most appropriate response, somehow. “She’s head honcho,” he burred, letting him know just who he was playing with and kissing. Here, Komodo looked at Coelacanth to provide her own name, as the completely capable alpha she was — he knew she could introduce herself, if she wanted to; had taught her himself. The man’s own introduction, however, was distinctly left out — he owed this boy nothing, and he did not feel like sharing, so he would not.