Wheeling Gull Isle where the wind’s like a whetted knife

Something churned the ocean and whipped at the sky. 

What brewed offshore, miles away, was suddenly palpable to all — no one more keen to it than the earthstalker. The mottled brute sat upon a precipice of limestone and sand, nose twisted to the wind and ears pressed against his skull, entirely displeased. He had come to this island in pursuit of Coelacanth, the girl who reentered his story and then exited with such alacrity that it left the grounded man spinning; and upon this new isle he had found nothing of her, but found other means of entertainment that had kept him in place for several days.  But now it was clear that something had displeased the spirits greatly, and they threatened to upset the placidity of the spring, so the shaman would need to reason with them.

Komodo turned away from the Isle’s shore and wove his way inland. He would need to prepare.