Wheeling Gull Isle the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking

He couldn't remember going into the water - could hardly remember reaching the coast. The wind had been fierce and howling by then, and it'd been hard to think over the sound of it. But he had thought - briefly - of how cool and sure the weather was back home, and how his father and brothers had probably had their last hunt without him, without knowing that he was heading straight into this.

But the wind tasted bright and electric, and King had kept going until he ended up here, somewhere wet and cold and wild. The wind was still whirling around him, kicking sand and other debris into his pelt, into his eyes, into the softer skin of his belly. He flipped over, realizing he'd hit land, and savored the feeling of a hard surface under his paws. It was too windy to open his eyes, so he felt lethargically along the ground, taking one shuffling step at a time. Eventually, he was sure to get someplace. The where of it hardly mattered - he wouldn't get home.