Wheeling Gull Isle Castaways and Cutouts

Perched atop the crow's nest, Ferahgo studied his new ship, and mentally catalogued the rutters of all the features that it held. It was a fine ship indeed, and he was pleased with its fine and with its christening. He watched as his crew moved about it, inspecting it for themselves. Each would need to find their own bunk and coffer, but together a suitable galley would need to be chosen. He himself needed his own quarters.

But that would have to wait.

Movement on the distant shore of the mainland caught his bone-colored eye. He thought he had been looking at carrion, but carrion did not shuffle down the coast. Hmm. The plank was still above the sea. Ferahgo slipped down from the peak of the rocky hill and went ashore. He saw that the moving flotsam was, in fact, a wolf. A sorry looking wolf, but a wolf, who reeked of bile and salt.

"Ye scurvy thing," intoned Ferahgo as he came to stand before the miserable creature. "Ye seen better days, ain't ye? Eh? Sea's not friendly, is it now, matey?" He sniggered.