Wheeling Gull Isle he hapalua ia o ka honua,

The fisherman watches with rapt attention but try as he might, the name of this land evades him -- still, the cur tries to commit the shape of it to memory, understanding that it holds some importance, hoarding it like a dragon might its gold or a pirate its bounty. He will keep it tucked away with the other words he cannot speak but treasures regardless. Akela, Holokai, Yuelong. 

Poisonous verdant optics of lime follow the man's movements, understanding this isle -- Yuelong -- to be the red leader's claim. Holo dipped his pale, blood-stained head in acceptance again. It was clear to the wolfdog that this place was of great importance to him -- another word he cannot say but knows in the depths of his heart. Home.

Sensing the question posed to him, the beachcomber limps toward the monolith that beckons from the center of the terrritory. For a moment, his gaze lifts beyond Aiolos and the waves breaking against the shore that brought him here -- to the mainland and its mysteries. He gives a definitive shake of his head. He will stay, if allowed. The mute dips again, then straightens and sweeps a paw at their surroundings as best he can on his unsteady legs. At last, he points back to himself -- using almost exactly the same gestures the former Nereides wolf implemented. 

Your home. Holo's home too?