Wheeling Gull Isle blackened was the banshee's wail

Their claim no more than a day or two behind them and already Roach was working to explore the isle. It wasn't much as far as islands went, but it would suit the crew decently. Or so he presumed — really, he wasn't quite one to tell. There had been minute chaos here and there, no doubt as others scuffled and bickered; there were exclaimations of joy in their wake as well. Whatever treasures they had found to plunder were bound to be fought for and truthfully, he tried to stay out of it. As far as Roach was convinced he wouldn't find himself entirely comfortable in their lodgings until he was certain what intentions were around him.

And so, he skirted the sands of the rocky shores, following the terrain as it varied both in width and height. Today's venture had brought him to the eastern shore which he had crossed only once, and at night. The midday brought it into a new and literal light and already he found he was discovering one of its little gifts ot them. Mussels had revealed themselves in the absence of the high tide and as hunger gnawed at him, he had set to freeing some for himself.

flogging molly — salty dog

He was a soggy mess when he dragged himself from the water, sputtering like a sinking vessel even after he was free of the surf. The scent of that pirate wolf lingered here - he could find it blindfolded, lacing the salt-thick air. After his run-in with the silver stranger, Snitch had been bereft. He had failed the trial, failed himself and his pirate blood. Desperate to prove he could do the thing (whether that meant beheading a stranger, ew, or just being a scoundrel and pirate), he trailed after that silvered stranger in to the night. That had been at least two day ago now, maybe three.

And it had led him here, to an island just off the coast. He had all but melted when he pitched himself in to the sea; some doggy-paddling later (and a lot of near drowning), Snitch surfaced on a rocky shoreline. The sun baked his hide dry-ish, while the salt tenderized his skin, working grit between the hairs, tanging patches, matting others. He was quite a wretched sight as he rose to his feet -- doing so in time to witness a stranger striding about the water's edge, head craned low to inspect some mussels encrusting a nearby boulder. He would've said something, but all that came from Snitch's mouth was a salty burp.

Pulling one loose from the sticky and gritty sand, Roach triumphed to himself. It was short lived; his peripheral picked up the rise of something else and in particular detail he noticed it was someone.

And there he stood, stock still like a frail doe in the sights of a murderous firearm. But it was not fear on his face that could be found, only a stark blankness that refused to bend or sway like the ocean breeze did his coat. The coywolf considered an approach but thought better of it. He hadn't seen this fellow before, and hailing him would be difficult with food in his mouth he wasn't willing to part with.

So instead, Roach weighed his options.

The stranger he spied was smaller than the other pirate. In fact, he resembled a different animal altogether - but maybe it was a trick of the light, or his age, or the fact that Snitch had nearly drowned so many times on his way here that his brain was starved for oxygen. That would make the most sense, considering the way he staggered to his feet and began to stumble closer. He paid little heed to the spicy aroma of wolves beneath the brine in the air, and zeroed in on the thin canine instead. Snitch made it about a wolf-length closer before he caught his feet on something sharp, and abruptly stopped, his nose turning sharply down while an absolutely offended expression shot across his young face. Evidently he wasn't so careful when striding along the barnacled shoreline; some of them had caught upon his pads and torn them, leaving his toes stinging and his attention divided.

A knot of tension built between his shoulder blades as he watched the brackish canine hone his attention onto him, especially when such a creature started towards him. Caught between a moment of flight and fight, it would have seemed that the shoreline decided to lend Roach a hand. He watched the wolf trip up in a way, stepping across the mussels that littered the high tide line and no doubt extending some form of harm. It was enough to prompt the coywolf into action and as his head lowered, a growl slipped out from between his parted jaws.

Snitch limped partway along among the rocks, but stopped with a shudder as soon as the stranger began to growl. It was only natural that his head would drop, his tail curl, and though he was bothered by the pain in his toes and the smell of salt in the air, he was obviously trying to appear diminutive. 

"You're not -- you're not the pirate," he floundered vocally. This creature was not the large salty-dog that he had encountered on the shore; he was smaller, thinner, and it confused Snitch on some deep indescribable layer of his puny psyche. "I... I'm here to.. I dunno really." Not hurt anyone, obviously! What made this stranger think he was a threat? Pfft!