Wheeling Gull Isle young blood, gotta pull the trigger

The land warmed, rousing the sluggish pulse of the Wilds, pushing them along to the flourishes of spring. He could feel it with each extra minute the sun hovered above the horizon each day. It made him smile. One might think a creature of the night would enjoy the darkness of winter nights. But on the contrary; Athanasius loved summer. Summer meant life, it meant food, it meant satiation for the hungry strigoi. There was no better time to hunt than summer.

Athan led his baietel, @Mazatl, back to the shore where they had met. He was not sure why he was constantly drawn back to this part of the Wilds, having not been raised by the ocean. It was not the first time he saw the great waters that provided the far western border — far from it. But it seemed that many a wolf was drawn to this part of the Wilds. He had a feeling that there were other pockets of packs packed densely in one region or another, but the ocean kept calling him back with its siren song (rudely interpersed with seagull cries).

He kept finding new things about the shore to enjoy and behold: the island for one. He peered out at its lonely sentinel post, then to Mazatl. With a small smirk, the strigoi began wading into the water, knowing that Mazatl would follow wherever he went. The swim to the isle's shores were not perilous — at least not for him — though he kept a close eye on his baietel, making sure he was safe.

Eventually his paws found solid ground, pulling himself onto shore. When Mazatl was safely on the shore, he lapped the deer-framed wolf's head gently, trying his best to dry him while simultaneously scanning the sand around them. His amethyst eyes settled on a dark, feminine figure in the distance, smirking slightly before leaning to Mazatl's ear. We are not alone, cel mai drag, He murmured before giving him another lick, his eyes focusing on the lone figure a few lengths away from