Wheeling Gull Isle eeyore's house

His chest smarted after he'd collapsed upon the small wood pile, but he sprang up without much care for the damage caused. Nothing was broken, and nothing was bleeding. He'd probably have a bruise or two in the next few hours, but Titmouse had been through far worse in his short life and had a pretty substantial threshold for pain. He got to his feet and managed to poise himself upon the small pile with some defiance, his front limbs suspended on the awkward angles of wood while his hindquarters remained planted on wet sand.

For a while he was ignorant of his accomplice; the stench of the dead pelican wasn't much different from the rest of the beach so he didn't even look up when the aroma drifted his way. He was focused on the pile, looming over it and reaching with his long snout for a piece of wood or something — and came away with a segment of the broken branch that had snapped beneath his weight in the first place. As he turned, pulling at it, the stick he'd chosen made a xylophone-effect across the various other beams.

Once it was clear of the pile, he let go and worked his jaw at the air, stretching the tired muscles there, which turned in to a brief shake-off. Just as his coat settled in to place again he noticed movement off to one side of his view — Moorhen, her tail wagging — and his own tail lifted high and bat about eagerly. He dipped his nose and grasped at the segment of wood he'd found and pulled free, hastily moving it away from the pile and towards where she was standing, but only made it partway before he had to pause and re-do the stretching of his sore jaw.