Wheeling Gull Isle come out to the coast

Wolves had departed and wolves had returned; Komodo had a difficult time noting these things, though he suspected it was part of his job. Komodo was beginning to learn what it meant to be truly hurt at the hands of a woman and, though his depressive reaction had been delayed somewhat, he was now fully experiencing such a thing. His raven had fled and had not returned, and Komodo honestly believed that she did not want to be found. His feral woman did not do things that she did not want to do — and neither did the earthstalker. So, he tried to learn to let her go and forget about all the silent promises of love and pups and forever they had whispered to each other in the night.

His fervent praying had not tempered the storm. His ceremonies did not calm the earth’s fury. Komodo’s god’s were failing him. 

Komodo could do nothing more than help to shepherd the wolves towards a safe place and using his presence to keep them calm. He felt utterly useless and hollow — ineffective in both leadership and spiritually. The man was not worthy of love just as he was not worthy of these wolves’ trust. See? He couldn’t even keep them safe from a storm; from God’s fury. In the end, the raging of the storm reflected the raging that went on within his breast. Silent and brooding, Komodo took up post on the outskirt of the entire group of seawolves, seceding the safer and drier locations to those more young and fragile. Listening to the howl of the winds, the man questioned everything.