Wheeling Gull Isle yo ho, it's a pirate's life for me!

Roach too had seen the island standing off of the coast at least once; it's reveal had left it standing stock still in stormy seas beneath a veil of fading fog.  He hadn't given it much thought, perhaps too far out to worry after swimming in the wintry season.  He stayed to the beach in the time that had passed, finagling his way through what it was that he was expected to do.

Which, when the Captain had decided that he wanted that island for himself, they had willingly followed him across the sandbar and to what Roach had thought a distant shore.  It was only then when they had been rallied for that adventure that he gained a proper assessment of this crew, and found that Ferahgo had found followers of all sorts in truth.  Their mismatched bodies and sizes, even temperments appealed to him, though they were hardly acquainted.

And together as one as they raised their proverbial glasses in a victorious toast, even he could not resist the urge to join in himself.  Be it in the wolfish blood that coursed his veins, but he desired enough to belong to participate.  His was a strange call but not unlike those that had graced the Wilds before him; it rested somewhere halfway between the deeper tones of a wolf and yet the higher range of a coyote.

As their song tapered off, he heard the commotion of Blurryface as he broke free from them to set off and gather trinkets, and that of another already inquiring if they were free to break away; Roach's gaze flitted between the golden lass and that of the dark-scruffed leader curiously.