Wheeling Gull Isle old salt kossabone

The ritual had not worked. The storm still steeped, miles up the capricious coast, but the effects were far reaching and its rage was felt strongly by the earthstalker.  Not only was he rife with frustration from his fruitless efforts, but the churning sea kept him withdrawn from the mainland entirely. This island was not the place Komodo wished to whether the impending maelstrom — it was too small, too confined, too exposed to the acrimony of the gods — and his travel hardened paws prickled at the stagnation. 

The land bridge he traversed was slowly being eroded away by the force of the tides; and he worried about how long his tenure upon the island would be. The longer he remained inert, extricated from his search for Coelacanth, the harder his task of finding her would be. He had entertained theories that the girl had been an apparition, a departed spirit sent to walk the earth’s crust, who had been called back to the heavens since their meeting. The idea was tempting, but he remained unconvinced.

And as much as he was loathe to linger upon the island, the man knew to risk the erratic sea would be a frivolous risk, and the angakkuq was not in the business of taking unnecessary risks. The man liked solidarity and certainty and self reliance — and though we was not wont to risk his life, his entire being rebelled against these island constraints. He paced tirelessly upon the island sands, carving thick trails upon the beach in his anxious, repetitive motion. Nothing ever changed, ‘cept for the position of the sun in the sky — but his shamanic eyes watched the waters and learned their patterns, noted the way the fauna reacted to the tumult of atmospheric energies, observed how the fins of the agitated sealife sliced the water’s surface and in this way, Komodo kept close tabs on the progression of the storm.

He was doing just that when he witnessed a wolf pull herself from the waters. At first he was given pause, but almost immediately he pushed forth and padded towards the sodden shewolf — the brute was impressed. Careful not to startle the tired naiad, the man slowed his approach, offered a chuff [nearly drowned out by the crashing of the wind and waves] and spoke deeply. ”You braved that?” He questioned incredulously — and when he allowed his gaze to linger upon the miasma of creams and coppers that decorated her pelt, he was given pause again. He drew closer and notched up an eyebrow. “I know you.” He did not recognize her fully, but the familiarity was there.