Wheeling Gull Isle going in town with six rounds

Reclusive was a correct thought—it was very much what he had become in the months that had passed his abandonment. Consider it some twisted, irresponsible sense of necessity to atone for things well out of his control, but he had done it. Even that guilt may have streaked through his thoughts when twilight bridged day to night and again night to day, but he did not consider that when she poised her question to him.

He saw past her, across the sandbar to the isle and how it loomed. Perhaps had the day been earlier it may have been concealed in a thick fog and left alone to lurk akin to apparition. But the day was far from that young; he fumbled to connect the dots for a second too long before it all made sense where he was, and what the grand scheme of things were. Drawing in a breath, he brought his gaze back to her single lilac own, and let it drop to the division of water and sand as he surveyed the coast.

”It's yours?” Rhetorically speaking—she wouldn't have asked why he was there otherwise. This would have been a more social incident that he would have long fled if that were the case, could still have been the case, but he felt the pull of something otherworldly connecting him now. His attention shifted again, back towards the island and the grove of trees that proudly announced it.

”I was only wandering by,” he concluded softly. He couldn't have claimed not to be aware of their existence there. He had heard them, after all; his heritage didn't lend him the ignorance to say that he hadn't sensed them either. No canine lurked along without some sense that there was something there, be it another or a marker declaring a note of importance.