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

“Brasta!”

The voice, the curse would be unmistakable to anyone who’d been graced with a working ear to have heard it. As it ever would, the throat it sailed from was none other than the crow — assuaged and swooping low as he narrowly evaded a gull by the webbing of its feet. So much for solitude.

But the ivory treader recovered, still cursing and shaking himself out, rocking back into his hocks. ...Eventually, though, his soured gaze soon sweetened when he sighted the corsair from afar the more he picked his way down the vacant shore. 

“¿Mi amor?” He practically trilled, that leonine grin curving scarred lips as he labored his way, abandonlessly, up the rises to reach his... flame, sort of? Flicker, maybe? “What ever are you doing here?”