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

The squall of birds competing for resources was the closest thing to the Fyre Festival that this place was ever going to get, thank god; but the sound of it was harsh on his ears, and it took concentration for Firefly to shut it out. He stopped watching the beach for just a few minutes (closing his eyes, imagining the birds drowning in the sea or something) when an exclamation that was not avian reached his one remaining ear.

He lazily opened his eyes and began to survey the sand, and was immediately set-upon by that boisterous voice speaking with a sing-song quality across the empty space; a voice he barely recognized, but the sight of the pale fellow crossing towards the island made Firefly raise to his full height and step boldly down from his resting perch.

What ever are you doing here? The foul Dragedan questioned of him. The tone of his voice was almost a taunt to Firefly, and he felt a sudden wave of quarrelsome emotion burn through his skin; if he'd been human he'd be blushing purple and trying to stay composed, but he was not, and could at least hide the uneasy sense of curiosity that sparked alongside his instantaneous desire to get up close and personal to the crow.

Not to kiss his face or anything gay, mind you. To bite him, pin him to the ground — give him a taste of his own medicine. The man swallowed a lump in his throat and countered, I live here. The fuck are you doing so far from the cliffs--? Oh, wait. Your people ran off on you, didn't they. He remembered the moment that Rusalka had realized the warriors had forfeit their claim and felt a swell of pride, but that was swiftly extinguished as he knew he had no right to think fondly of his old haunt.