Wheeling Gull Isle mashallah

 The earthstalker’s eyes narrowed as the man shuffled nervously, admitting guilt in the [albeit broken] common tongue and then again in another language, one which was foreign to him. It still was of no real matter to him, but Komodo wished to see what the man did in such a situation — he figured he was here to ask about a home, and likely food, and as always Komodo proceeded with careful analysis. 

After a hardened moment of silence between them both, the man’s hardened expression softened and he let his tail relax between his hocks in a subtle show of deference. If he meant no hard to them, then the man had nothing to worry about. Komodo, the man who had once been Vedmak, knew this dance very well and this man was a quick study. Perhaps here the mottled brute was assuming duties and a role which no longer belonged to him, but it felt right and natural, so who was he to fight it?

“No worries brotha,” he drawled, punctuating the sentiment with a bourdon-deep chuckle. “We gat plenty.” Certainly he did not expect to be understood via words, for Komodo spoke but one language and a smattering of religious prayers gleaned from across the continent, but with any hope the stranger could read energy and intention and body language. If so, this would be made easy — for Komodo was quite skilled at communicating with voiceless things and finding meaning in places that were not language. He had done so with Coelacanth and his raven, so he knew how this was done. “Yeh, un-der-sea” he over-enunciated, doing his best to stymie his thick southern accent more than he was trying to lay out the complex pronunciation to the stranger. A thickset paw turned upwards and motioned towards himself.

“Ahm’ Komodo,” he introduced. “ ‘n yew are?”