Wheeling Gull Isle martinique, that montserrat mystique

He watched her – a gentle creature that unfurled from within herself like a flower when she seemed to realize his intent was to not harm her. Yet her blue eyes were piercing – not judgemental, but he felt almost uncomfortable beneath her inquiring look, as if she could see in to his very soul.
 
The only reprieve he had from that thought was that at least he might have a soul left.
 
She denied the seagull – her actions speaking volumes, and the wraith allowed it to rest at his paws for now, unattached to the hunger pang within his belly and far more captivated by his companion to satiate that whim. He watched her retrieve her crab – bewitching it somehow to nestle it within the soft fur of what could not have been the fur of a pure wolf – but she was beautiful nonetheless.
 
She spoke his name then – airy, hesitant with her words, and in turn, he dipped his muzzle slightly, his eyes starkly bright upon her. She then questioned him – his intentions, perhaps? All the more she continued, and he found her all the more endearing, and sharply reminded himself that he would not once more play the role of protector to another – for it usually meant their imminent demise. “Yes, friend,” he rumbled in return, his own features remaining stoical, though he attempted the remnants of his once youthful and boyish grin – he only hoped it did not come forward as a grimace. “You?”