Wheeling Gull Isle a place called kokomo

Sweet puffs of her breath elicited a rumble of beatitude from his barrel-shaped chest. His eyes slipped shut again in a feigned sleep, he took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, blowing up a small cloud of dust around his pale mouth. Then he relaxed and settled into the ground as would a wolf in the throes of sublime sleep, blissfully unaware of the inkblot that crawled around and upon him. The more she moved, the less he moved and once or twice he threw a snore in there [for good measure].

Things such as this were the only reason the angakkuq hadn’t already said "fuck it" and attempted to swim across the war-torn channel to the mainland. 

Though Coelacanth was in high spirits that day, he knew her to still be a creature plagued by her recent past, though Komodo resigned himself to never truly knowing what horrors befell her. But he didn’t need to know — wasn’t sure he wanted to know, considering he could exact no vengeance while confined upon the spit of land. All the medicine man knew was that the girl was safe now, safe with him, far away from whatever beguiled her on the mainland.

Even if the island choked him, it nurtured her, and that alone was worth it.

Then, a sound! His ear fluttered against the sibilant noise that danced upon the sheepdog’s lips and at once his feigned sleep was abandoned. The girl could growl, the girl could huff, but he had never before heard that. "Yeah?” He questioned incredulously, notching up one eyebrowsteasingly. The earthstalker attempted to remain chill despite his sudden and profound awakeness, as he did not lose this opportunity by drawing sobered attention to it. Instead, he let her decide what to do next.