Wheeling Gull Isle Good Tidings

Sunsets. Sunrises.
The man had watched them pass with each growing day; and with it the growing knowledge became apparent that the land he once knew was far away. Easthollow was far. Valette was far. No longer did the sweet smell of grass swarm around him, the deep cowing of bison, the sounds of the air through the white bark trees.

Now all he smelt was salt. Thick and pungent. Sticking to his fur and causing his eyes to water slightly.

Greyback stopped at the coastline, looking into the sand with awe and wonder. Never before had he seen such a substance. It stuck to his toes, coating him in a dusting that felt awful and was hard to shake off. No matter how hard he tried it refused to untangle itself in his long fur that was now slightly matted with the sea water. It would be apparent to anyone by his awkward gate on the sand bar that the behemoth of a man was not accustomed to this place.

Yet he stayed, standing and watching the sea as he trailed up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Mindlessly thinking and staring into the setting waters and the island not far off.