Wheeling Gull Isle he hapalua ia o ka honua,

A sweep of his paw and to his chest. A willingness to stay and continue on despite his injuries. Luckily the blood had stopped flowing, the salty water likely doing well to clean it. He needed rest, food and if anyone hold the skill for it, someone to help push his wounds to heal quicker.

Aiolos woofed and then pushed further and out of the openness and chill of the open beachside. They had their own little forestry here on the island and a rocky shelter made by the hillside. Closer into the heart of the island was the den in which Natshana had once used as her infirmary. From here he jutted his muzzle to the den opening and after which, would call out to his packmates of the newcomers arrival. Maybe someone would come if they could and assist. Maybe they would meet the wolfdog later. Either way Aiolos wanted to make sure that Holokai needn't try to explain his reasoning for being here when it obviously could not.

But what to call their new follower? Aiolos guessed it didnt matter, given the fact that the newcomer not only couldnt understand it, but didnt seem to be able to hear it, either. Drifter. Aiolos then decided allowed. The name seemed fitting in a few different ways. One, was that he was a stranger, a wanderer, having been taken adrift and brought here to their borders. Another was that he was pale, bleached out of color savor a few splashes of brown. Beach driftwood was pale and creamy like his coat but the same wood he had seen inland in the bogs of his birth home, it was a smooth brown such as his markings. And, as large as he was, maybe he was as strong as wood, too.