Wheeling Gull Isle i don't do cutesie symbols.

The further Fig went, the stronger and more awful the scent became. He wrinkled his nose in displeasure as he rounded the foot of a particularly large boulder and paused as he was momentarily distracted by the sound of very faint voices on the wind. They were barely discernable over the roll of the tide, but Fig was certain he'd heard them, even though he could no longer. He turned his gaze out over the water and squinted shrewdly, scanning the opposite shore. Whatever he sought had the distinct scent of death upon it, so it was less of a concern than whatever other creature he'd picked up on. The dead could not hurt him. The living might.

With a brief glance back the direction he'd been heading, he turned and headed towards the water with ears cupped forward at attention. He paused once his toes reached the surf and frowned at the mainland, which was not close but apparently just close enough to make this work. His head canted as he listened, but the only sound he heard was the tide and the gulls. Fig was still for a moment, internally debating what he ought to do. He could ignore it and go back to hunting down the terrible smell. Or, he could go the route he ended up taking, which was to tilt his head back and let out a low, questioning howl to whomever the voices had belonged.