Wheeling Gull Isle What gets out kool-aid stains?

Tags for reference, open to anyone.

The island had been barraged by sleet for so many days that Titmouse had lost track of time. It was colder than ever before, so cold that the tide pools along the territory edge had frozen solid. A few mornings, as he'd gone to do his rounds and warm his thin limbs up, he'd found himself slipping across sheets of ice. His paws didn't leave a trail in the sand anymore, it was so cold that the dampness usually present had become something more solid. It was bizarre, and to some degree, frightening.

The strangest part of this cold snap was the eerie quiet. The forest was empty of all sound, except the occasional gust of wind that whipped through the spires or rustled the boughs. Further inland on the tiny claim, where the wolves had been roosting in their communal caves or beneath the mighty old tree (Willis), everyone seemed to be quite subdued. Like any effort to do anything was too much.

Titmouse had been keeping to himself when the silence was broken; there was a voice scattered in the snowfall that sounded so familiar that his heart swelled, and he felt hope creep out of the cracks in his heart like a weed fighting through pavement. But he didn't go to investigate. The sound dwindled and died, and he presumed he was merely imagining it. That voice he had longed to hear for weeks, the call that would have fixed everything if it had come a few days sooner — but now, Titmouse didn't trust it. He didn't know if @Maegi was really here or if he was making it up, filling the emptiness of winter with her ghost.

So he did not go to investigate; he spent a few moments standing still among the shifting winds, and then continued on with his patrol. It would be hours before he'd reappear at the territory heart, worn out from the exertion and shivering from the cold. In his teeth he clutched a stick — or he'd thought it was a stick when he'd found it — for @Moorhen's collection. As he dropped it beneath the protective boughs of @Spruce Willis, Titmouse recognized it for what it was: a large femur void of any distinguishing marks. It must have been quite old to lose its flavor.