Wheeling Gull Isle i don't do cutesie symbols.

It was a little strange for Fig, this whole nomadic existence that he found himself living. It was one thing to live this way when it had just been him, on the road with no real goal or destination. Now he had companions, and having companions brought out the instincts that guided him as a pack wolf. He felt the driving need to keep them safe, protect them, protect their space. But they had no territory they called their own, and so no borders to patrol or keep fresh. He felt like he lived in limbo and he wasn't too sure he was a fan.

Still, he did the best he could. When the trio setup camp on the island, Fig had set out to check out their space. It wasn't technically theirs, but he still needed to know that it didn't belong to anything that posed any threat to them. He made his way along the shoreline, inspecting a rock here, an abandoned shell there, finding nothing to cause any alarm until a peculiar scent stole his attention and he paused. It smelled strange, and not in a pleasant way, but he couldn't place it. Frowning, he pressed forward, stepping lightly in the cold, wet sand around the tall stones that jutted out from the earth randomly across the beach.