Wheeling Gull Isle mashallah

The man looked pitiful, Komodo would admit — but he simply appeared to be a wolf tired from travel, not diseased or broken or hurt. It was nothing that a little r & r could not remedy, though it had been some time since the angakkuq had practiced his healing medicines and he was itching to use his magic on someone soon, someday soon. The stranger, Rehan Quadri, must have sensed this and was quick on the uptake.

Komodo did his best to wrangle his prickly nature. He took a deep breath as the boy asked if he could stay — if this wolf though he was going to gain admittance into Undersea with as little information as he had just given, he had severely underestimated the once-vedmak. “Oy, hold on there, Ghandi,” he burled with a critical eye. “Yuh gonna take ‘vantage of our hearth ‘n home fur how long? Uh night 'er two? Yuh plannin’ on stayin’ or leavin’?” Surely this was a lot of words for the man’s foreign ears and tongue, and for a moment the brute contemplated how to convey this question in a nonverbal manner — but he came up short, so he decidedly would allow Rehan assume the hard work of discerning and understanding his meaning.   

But that wasn’t all. “An’ whare are y’frum?” he capped off his inquiry, trying to place the man’s thick accent. Somewhere far off, that was for sure.