Wheeling Gull Isle the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking

The girl was sodden, heavy and limpid — not an easy load to haul [especially not when also combatting the push-pull of the elements] but the girl was small and he was large, so with haste the pair made their jaunty and jerky retreat backwards, towards the treed barrier. Adrenaline fueled him, made him stronger; but the task was made easier when another braced him and provided an assist. He could only assume it was the same, feeble wolf from moments before, come to join him in his efforts. The wolf seemed to have found an upwelling of strength, just as the world seemed to have found new strength in the midst of the hurricane. The storm raged, misunderstood and feared as it was, and Komodo realized why he had been attracted to its intensity rather than repelled.

The storm and he had more in common than he previously understood. The ceremony had been attempted; yet failed — and in that way, Komodo understood that the storm was always meant to happen. The man was meant to learn something from it. 

There was activity not only in the violent winds that gripped them and the sea that thrashed, but activity was ran hot in the bodies of the living things, too. Now that the brute had been made privy to the life that struggled and labored against the earth’s fury, he found he could not look away. Another voice was added to the chorus of steam engines and angry sea monsters that threatened to drown out the other man’s low voice — but what the voice stated made Komodo loosen his hold on the wastrel’s thick scruff, eventually abandoning his grip entirely, and cut a scrutinizing gaze towards the speaker.

“Earthstalker,”

It was a moniker not known to many. Komodo had given it to himself, as was customary in his tribe when he had come of age. It was the product of a vision quest; drug induced, yes, but a spiritual journey all the same. He did not speak of these things to others often. 

The coincidence that Ixchel had used his shamanic name just day before was not to be ignored. His recent encounter with Ixchel allowed his mind to summon memory of Axolotl quite easily, as the siblings had never had been far from each other, not even during all his months with Riptide’s clan. Though Komodo was indeed eager for a reunion as well, he was appreciate of Axolotl’s terse and decisive mien in this matter. Axolotl had grown and matured since Komodo’s departure — it was easy to notice, even in those few fleeting moments. 

Komodo gave a curt nod, looking inland — but he could see nothing. Inland was surely safer than the tumultuous coast, and the promise of elevation and fresh water was tempting. But it was not just these four upon the island, no; somehow the angakkuq, amidst the turmoil that slammed him body and soul, knew there were others upon this island. Perhaps they were in danger, too. The shaman would not leave them, lest they perish at the hands of the creeping storm surge. He was a hard man, but a healer first and foremost and he would not see capable bodies felled in the name of nature’s wrath. They could prove to be useful in the tribulations to come.

The storm surge moved inland,  eating at the beach and eroding away viable land, and Komodo knew they impromptu team would need to work fast.  ”Take them,”  he corroborated, giving instruction in the very same breath. ”I will look for others.” When the other darted away to tend to yet another body washed up on the shore, Komodo resumed his shared responsibility to bring the small one the arboreal aegis. Then he would leave them, return to the beach, and watch for others with hawklike attention.