Wheeling Gull Isle wet

@Aria

Self imposed religiosity; something in him abhorred this part of his being and resented the large part of him that had been dedicated solely to the gods. There was nothing [would be nothing!] that Komodo opened himself to as willingly as he did orthodoxy and intoxicating dogma; the security that came when he waves his hands and blew his smokes and said his chants. He was skilled in the ways of the shaman, yes, but his communion and fervor stemmed from a healthy fear of anarchy, of knowing his fate to be outside of his hands, and a desire to control. When deep in prayer or tripping on divinity, Komodo never found a sense of wholeness or nirvana  — instead, there was a very really sense of begging and pusillanimity. He wanted control and only the gods could give it to him.

There was little solace to be found in the arms of the spirits, after all.

Yet, the heavens roiled and thundered and the angakkuq deigned to return it a thousandfold. Yes, he would beg! He would contend! The gods were generous to those who asked — and knew how to — and Komodo was not above taking what was given to him. If his circumstances threatened him, the man only need to ask and his woes might be whisked away, as easily as the wind stirred the leaves. Komodo was not a man afraid of exertion and inconvenience [much the contrary], but using prayer to smooth his path through life had been what allowed him to see after such pursuits in the first place. There was no shame in it.

He could smell the electricity on the air. The atmosphere itself was not raining, yet, but the entire milieu was permeated with a type of dampness that clung to his bones and made everything smell of wet. Komodo looked down at the provisions assembled at his feet, slowly dampening upon the already-saturated ground. With much alacrity the earthstalker had gathered his materials and props, thoughts of Coelacanth and her ominous disappearance suspended for the time being. The fawnskin pouch that went ‘round his neck and hung against his breast had been emptied, the content purged upon the ground in front of him. A bone from a rabbit. The rattle of a snake. A shining, amber shard of myrrh. Gathered from inland, there was a bough of willow and the corpse of a hare — though the meal was not for him, no. The angakkuq hadn’t eaten in several days, fasting for the ceremony of it, and would sacrifice his food to appease those angered, higher beings. 

Komodo let out several sonorous barks, awakening the world and alerting it to his intentions. Then he waited for the winds to whip around him, through his mottled pelt and across the island landscape, answering his call.