Wheeling Gull Isle a million little gods causing rainstorms

Wavewrack Lagoon. Tagging @Stockholm and @Coelacanth but open to whoever!

It was late—nearly morning, actually. The barest filament of sunlight was just beginning to spread across the horizon but the sea does not care. There is nothing amiss; the sea moves constantly, drumming across the stacks of stone. Foam builds between them and then the tide draws back, repeatedly, endlessly—it has been this way for so long, and it would not cease. The sea did not care as it wore away the stone. It did not care when it deposited layers of seaweed and shell across the lowest reaches.

By the time the sun has risen to a golden band of light, and the summer warmth begins to catch the raucous water, there is something else upon the irregular shore. The tide is coming in, pedantic, almost lazy in its administration. It deposits a bundle of dark grey netted in slick green weeds; after a moment, as the sea returns (perhaps to check on its gift), a thin tendril of red drifts from the bundle and muddies the water.

In time, he would be dead. Expectant of this, waking gulls begin to take flight to find themselves a meal—but they find him, this sad, useless, unwanted thing, and begin to call for reinforcements.