Wheeling Gull Isle lovely

Komodo and Reigi marked the borders for some time — not entirely silently, either. Komodo communicated with his words, as gravelly and slurred as they were, almost as if he had several alcoholic beverages prior. Probably a near whisky, or wish a splash of coca-cola, sipped quietly in a corner. The silent one — Vennine, or something? whatever Moorhen had said — communicated with her movements. This, Komodo was fluent in. He blamed that vixen of an inkblot for that. Without much fuss, when the job was completed, they two parted and the angakkuq felt better, lighter, for having finally made a positive impression on someone.