Wheeling Gull Isle Don't be shy.

He gathered some unwanted information as he was herded along, and once the two of them were roosting beneath a tree with the din of the sea falling away, Vekesh could finally relax a little bit. His whole body was so frail looking, and having his sparse coat matted to his thin body only made things worse. The boy was quaking; he managed to side-step away from the stranger long enough to shake himself out, causing his winter mane to fluff along his spine haphazardly; once he was done, he squished himself against the dry patch of earth beneath the tree, where he would happily wait until the weather improved.

He'd just settled when he heard the second bit—the question—and for a moment all he can do is blink; the question was so obvious to him, and it caught him off-guard that such a term wasn't known to this creature. He licks his lips and then, as his face breaks in to an awkward smile he explains, Varg? Ah, a waulf, bigga den bode'a us togetha. But that didn't really need explaining, he thought, because the stranger had already told him this was a pack. Gross.

You live hea? Wid da vargs, or—? There was always the question. Vekesh did not trust wolves, at least pure-blooded ones, which could've been why he was so lenient and accepting of this stranger's ignorance and obfuscation. He couldn't be certain he could trust this person either but they had saved him from the sandbar and allowed him some space, which was a plus. Many of his people left the tribe and ventured through the world, only to return with horror stories; perhaps one such story was unfolding here.