Wheeling Gull Isle a tall ship and a star to steer her by

There is a flurry of movement, an skeletal inkblot lashing out against earthstalker. He is drawn away from the others that have gathered and begun the journey as the woman haunches in on herself. He recognizes her, albeit, barely. She does not look the same woman he once knew; at least not fully. “Coelacanth Corten,” He speaks her name affirming for himself that it is actually her though it would be hard to mistake her. The Cortens are the only part sheep dog, part wolf breeds he’s ever met in his life, to be fair. She appears to be feral and Axolotl is not sure they can rouse her from her state but she is weak. She needs fresh water. She needs food and her injuries tended to. She needs to be able to keep up with them or else she is likely to die. “You need to move, Coelacanth.” He is not gentle as he speaks the words, an issued command to a creature that he once knew to be gentle and lovely that is now a feral beast he barely recognizes. So he acts as he feels he need to: with commanding words and commanding tone.

“We must move or we will all perish on this forsaken beach.” He raises his voice against the snarling storm so that those gathered may hear him. He feels like a broken record being as redundant as he has been but he repeats himself anyway as he situates himself at the metaphorical head of the group and begins to lead the way inland following a path that is familiar to him but otherwise lost to the wiles of the hurricane. The promise of shelter and fresh water and the necessity to reach both as quickly as they can is daunting as it presses against him. He would feel better if he had food to offer them but he did not and for now fresh water and shelter would need to be incentive enough.