Wheeling Gull Isle Barren land, a storm that time remembers

Mou was doing his usual routine: lurking in the dark corners of the island. Somehow more at-home in the sparse woods here than any other place, although he was growing fond of the island all over again. It was easier with the melting of the snow. He wasn't as cold now; when the sun came beaming between the gaps he'd even sprawl beneath them on his back, soaking up the heat across his exposed belly. Such was his position when the sound of footsteps roused him.

He rolled to one side, tucking his long limbs close. His dark ears pivoted to follow the sound while he looked around with a seemingly frantic back-and-forth of his head; but he wasn't worried, he simply had to work doubly with the one eye. The stranger that came to browse through his current haunt was a patchwork oddity.

With a brief sniff of the air (during which time he learned this was a wolf belonging to the island after all, young and male and healthy to boot) Mou began to observe the stranger; then he boofed a low sound somewhere between a grunt and an invitation, watching to see what the stranger would do.