Wheeling Gull Isle crawl out of your cave

He'd just settled in to place when — Who are you? a familiar question penetrated the air, voiced by an unfamiliar wolf. That earned a small twist of his ears but otherwise he did not show any signs that he heard the stranger. The island was small and the wolves loyal to Strand would've been told about his arrival (or so he presumed); the formality of meeting each member of the horde and making nice didn't currently fit in Firefly's repetoire. He needed to recover, not spend all his days filling the beach with hot air.

Instead of answer, he gathered the various plants now scattered beside him on the rocks and began to masticate them. Chunks wedged between his molars and he chewed, crunched, adding more and more of the pile until it was mashed in to a wet mass between his teeth; then he gathered what he could on to his tongue and with an awkward twist, tried to reach his nearest hind limb for application.

It was harder than it looked. Firefly was burly and his body was bruised from his tumble in the sea. A few straining moments later and he was too frustrated to do much; so the poultice was spat in to the sand and he gave a deep, world-shaking sigh. Now he appeared to notice the islander — he rolled his flagrantly herbal tongue across his snout and said, Argyle.