Wheeling Gull Isle drinking through my muzzle on the kitchen wine

The storm had passed, but it was no thanks to Komodo. The island was a mess, with plant matter and tree debris thrown about, wolves missing and presumed dead, wet and sodden winter earth and cold winds. Before there was chaos, but now there was a muted sense of this chaos, sheltered in the mouths of the seawolves who were left to restore the island. Komodo, however, was not one of these wolves.

The man stuck to the labyrinth as he always had, but this time with a certain ferocity and seclusion about it. The duties of the past few days had hit the man hard, and that [along with many other things] drained his body of spirit and his mind of its energy. He no longer cared for his things — it actually had only been a few weeks ago when Komodo had learned that the fawnskin pouch that he kept around his neck was missing, and he had that thing for years. It was symbolic of the loss the medicine man felt deep within his very being. His lover was gone, without even a word, and even to this day the idea was quite hard for him to bear. What was once a question, a loving assumption that she would return. She was either dead or she didn’t love him, and he knew it was not the latter — but he simply could not bear if it were the former, either. 

Just as the first maelstrom had done, messages from the gods had been brought to Komodo’s ears. The brute had thrashed with the storm, perhaps only inwardly, and perhaps spurred on by it. The winds ushered in a new era of Komodo’s life, one which he thought might have involved quite a comfortable life with his raven and maybe a cub or two. The angakkuq was no spring chicken. He had not been able to call himself young for quite some time, but whenever he looked upon himself in the water, he was always shocked to see how the tip of his muzzle was peppered with gray. He was getting old now, and what had it all been for anyways?

It was all as clear to Komodo as it had ever been — it was the type of clarity that you could purchase only through pain and suffering and loss. He thrust his nose to the wind and felt the winds blast his face and comb through his fur like a lover’s fingers. He did not utter a sound, but simply hoped that @Coelacanth might simply materialize next to him when he needed her most, as she always did.