Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

With his sister returned from Kintla and to his nephew and niece, now it was Vonnaruil’s turn to drift from the mountains. How long had it been since he’d been parted from the coast and its many mighteous males? It seemed that only the sea and the salted season would help to clear his lungs; unstopper the stagnancy in his ivory breast that’d come with the alpines of Diaspora.

The pale crow remembered fondly Severin — that delicious, dark hedonist he’d spent but a night and many hours with. He recalled, too, the gilded Rusalkan @Firefly from further on up — a promise he’d had yet to make due on, and one that, supposedly, may never arrive.

Hm.

Sterling eyes slanted across the surging springtide before and below him; even if he never chanced upon the sort of company he longed for, the crow liked to think he could languish in solitude, at least. With a decided hitch of his tail, the skraw moseyed his way through the sands, and did simply that.