Wheeling Gull Isle blackened was the banshee's wail

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.