Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

The tide always pulled away from the island in the afternoon, leaving a few hours of empty wet sand as a road. In the days since his arrival Firefly had come to know this and expect it, which was one of the reasons he had taken up a station by the island's easternmost edge—usually found loitering in the forest in the morning hours and then further down the beach as the water receded, keeping an eye on the path in case of misfortune. He did not know what to expect, or even if he was truly guarding the place; at least one boy had crawled from the mainland to the island already and Firefly had not stopped him.

Maybe he was expecting fate to come crawling over too; perhaps an angry raid of Rusalkans trying to hunt the man down, or a legion of beasts from Stormrift set to avenge their fallen leader and wounded friends. A part of Firefly yearned to see those familiar faces again just to spit at them and fill the air with taunting. Had he the power, he would have baited them close and then called for the sea to fill the void—sweep them away with a biblical flourish.

Alas, he could not do such things. He was left to watch the growing gap and listen to the swooping sea birds (gulls, eagles too, opportunists he could appreciate) as they frenzied over the exposed crabs scuttling for cover.