Wheeling Gull Isle blackened was the banshee's wail

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.