Wheeling Gull Isle i cannot put my finger on it now

She'd gotten pinched by a crab here. Or, at least, that was what those in the know called them—for her part, Maegi knew them only as those dreadful little pinchers, and gave them a wide berth. There was one now nearby; she passed it, huddled under a piece of driftwood, on the way to the beach.

The island was cloaked in mist today, a light rain that sometimes turned to sleet when the wind grew icier. It was freezing and blustery, and Maegi wondered why she was out here now getting soaked when she could be tucked away with her husband somewhere. Yet she continued, forging ahead, paws sloshing into the water, the waves a bracing spray against her chest.

Māzigon, she called out to the ocean, eyes pointed to the currently-invisible mainland. She called for Blue, fruitlessly; he'd been south, safe, when the flames had come, and would remain there until the spring. 

She missed her grackle. And as she thought of Blue, she thought of her old companions here, too. Who'd witnessed her first, fateful brush with the pincher? Rokig, right? And Reed had taught her about the horses; she'd subsequently taught Driftwood. Venninne had led her here—

Jaes, they were gone—all gone! This was Yuelong, and nothing but appearances was the same. Even the little places she'd come to know had been given different names.

Maybe it was a mistake to have come here.

It surely was a mistake to have come outside. And still she stood, stubbornly against the wind, eyes narrowed to slits against the wind and rain, as if it were an enemy. As if she'd come to fight—to die.