Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

Driftwood's eyes were roving across the sandy beach as was usual with him, paying more attention to the ground below than to the rest of his surroundings. A mediumweight dusting of fresh and falling snow was threatening to conceal his precious seashells from him more thoroughly than usual, but this Seawolf was bound and determined to find them anyway. He moved forward to prod cautiously at a promisingly sharp-looking edge among the monotonous gentle covering of white, furrowing his brow and squinting as he sniffed more closely at it: the protruding edge of a larger shell, perhaps? He could only hope—but before he'd quite made certain of his find a much darker silhouette detached itself from the treeline and caught the corner of his eye.

Driftwood looked up in startlement as Moorhen steadily moved toward him. He stared at her in surprise for a moment, and then cast a quick, furtive look to either side of him, wondering if perhaps it was someone else nearby she might be seeking—which seemed pretty improbable; the snow certainly wasn't deep enough to be hiding any of his packmates nearby, not even the smallest of the puppies, but Driftwood also couldn't remember Moorhen's having sought him out ever before for anything. But, then again...maybe that was just his own faulty brain talking. His eyes widened a few fractions more as the sight and scent of the fish she carried hit him, as it twitched and wafted its scent toward him against the light breeze, while Moorhen's steps hauled it closer.

A salmon?! he blurted unthinkingly. Did the big storm wash some of those ashore up into the trees there somehow, or—? Wait, no, that was kind of a dumb question, wasn't it. He couldn't remember exactly how long it had been since The Storm but he was pretty sure any fish it had beached would have long since stopped twitching. Right? Right. ...Surely. Er, that is—where did you find that?! I didn't know you were such a talented fisher! He hoped his second guess would prove a little more realistic, here; some piece of his brain was still stuck on the astounding notion that maybe the storm could have made fish findable on land. (Why hadn't he thought of that— but then again, who looked for fish in among trees anyhow?! The nonsensical patter of his own mind was rather distracting.) But if that wasn't the case, then it was a lot more likely Moorhen had fished the thing up herself just recently...he hoped, anyway. Otherwise he'd better prepare for another quick surgical removal of yet another firmly-wedged foot from his mouth.