Wheeling Gull Isle it's a hard-knock life

The Gampr rumbles genially, canting his scarred muzzle to buffet Droman’s shoulder in turn; but his brow furrows in concern at the heavy exasperation that colors the boy’s tone. Golden gaze follows the nod of Droman’s chin to the crab, then flicks to settle on Driftwood’s face. The long-legged male seems ill at ease, and Stockholm’s short-cropped ears prick in interest. His large stature and place amongst the pack fall second to his generally mild-mannered nature, so he doesn’t really know why Driftwood looks like he’s seen a ghost; but to alleviate some of his stress, the Armenian merely turns his attention to Droman, giving the other guy some time to adjust.

“Why do you think it’s a dumb idea?” he asks, genuinely confused. Does it have to do with the crab? The company?

To Driftwood, “Yeah, it’s a crab,” he replies, but the second half of what the guy says is…honestly pretty baffling. “Territorial agreement?” he echoes.