Wheeling Gull Isle "one day at a time," is what they tell us

If one thing could be said about the pale boy, it was that he reeked of the sea. When the observer came by with his offering it wasn't like anyone would've noticed the smell of the fresh caught fish; the body that sat in the dark of the cave was still damp in places, and the odious nature of that otherwise pristine pelt was unmistakable.

The visitor was quiet; so too was the hollowed-out wolf, who breathed with laborious automation and did little else. That is, until he started to convulse. Perhaps it was because the body had ingested so much water on its trip across the pond — or perhaps it was just time, — but there were spasms, and a thin line of foam rising behind his teeth, spilling out as messy spittle across the rocky floor.