Wheeling Gull Isle he hapalua ia o ka honua,

The tarnished man of red before Holo is a cunning one to connect the dots so quickly even if it is lost on the Dogo what exactly he says. There are signs for those keen enough to read them -- this male amongst their numbers perhaps -- that would indicate his inability to hear what is asked of him: the way his sharp ears remain lowered in submission without even a hint of a flicker, the way his granny smith eyes flicker blankly over Aiolos' noble features. They flit to the leader's lips as he poses the question, curious. But he's never had much luck puzzling out what the shape of another's words are.

He watches for some sort of visual cue, letting out another soft keening noise -- canine but wordless. There's sentience in his verdant eyes and a willingness that speaks of silent intelligence but communication is clearly impossible. The pale dreadnought lowers himself as best he can, just a smidge. Just enough that he can dip into a brief, almost playful bow, and thump one paw on the sand. 

I'll follow if you'll lead.