Wheeling Gull Isle and brought to an end their earthly days

A rainstorm battered the shore of the isle, the sky cracking with a flash and peal of lightning and thunder. The sea was violent, churning and chopping with a vengeance untold. And there he was, lingering where gentle forest met wet sand, snout deep in the undergrowth sussing things out. It wasn't a mindless, silly game he was playing—he searched for tender shoots and herbs to gather, to begin a rudimentary stock of what he could find and what he could store.

The storm was far from a deterrent as he pulled a plant loose from the tangle of overgrowth, the mark of high summer yet to decline. It was a delicate task to pull the plant free; he wanted roots and all, nary a thing broken or left behind left to rot. He had found a suitable location to place them, to tuck them away hopefully out of sight of curious, prying teeth and noses, but they had to be gathered first. His actions were methodical and repetitive, his face blank as he went over a task he had done a thousand times in a time before this and then some before that.

Another crack of thunder overhead, a toss of turning winds; none of it disturbed him.

tagging the active lot for visibility if they'd like to join — @Lokie, @Connor, @Rosencrantz, @Komal, @Daegon, @Rhællaa — and if i missed anyone, you're welcome to join too.