Wheeling Gull Isle v.a.t.s or die

The difference between life in a canyon and one on the beachside was night and day, yet somehow it was still familiar to Gristle, for the wolves he found himself surrounded with were very much the same as the ones back at Red Canyon — loud, rowdy and violent. He relished it. The journey from there to here had been too quiet and uneventful, even with Wednesday by his side.

Already, he bore marks from his recent scrap with the wolves of the forest south of them. It was a miracle they escaped with their lives (minus one or two pieces missing), but Gristle thought nothing of it. He had simply cleaned himself up and went back to his simple existence.

Presently, the beast was actually making himself useful, having disposed of a large, squawking seabird, it's corpse now laying at his feet awaiting to be taken to the caches. However, he had been distracted by the nest it had been protecting, and now was reared onto his hind legs, leaning against a rocky outcropping that held the delicate treasure just behind a tangled brush. Only the sound of snorting and the soft crunching of egg shells could be heard from onlookers as Gristle devoured the hatchlings.