Wheeling Gull Isle a turkey in a turtle's shell

The man was networked with more scars than Mojag had ever seen before. He hadn't taken his injuries in to account when he'd spoken before, and now that the man explained himself, Mo felt a little stupid for it. His ears turned back upon his head and he took on a sheepish, apologetic curve to his body to briefly, wordlessly say as much.

Those ears scooped forwards again to listen to the man's struggled speech. I haven't decided what to hunt yet, he answered. And if you like, you can rest while I hunt for you! One day I'll be the best hunter in Sweetharbour. It was a dream he'd carried since his days in his village. Now that Mojag was here at the end of the world, he saw no reason to give it up.

I was thinking of trying for fish, the boy admitted next. He was careful with his words now - enunciating, speaking with a deliberate air so that the man would not struggle to comprehend. He hoped it helped. —but, the only fish I've ever seen are very small.