Wheeling Gull Isle these lights are way too loud

It had been two weeks since he'd arrived on the island, not that he was able to conciously keep track of anything. The herbal remedies kept the boy pretty distant from all the goings-on. He slept sporadically now (usually with the help of poppies) and had grown further dependent on the help of the medics; but he was getting better, even if it didn't seem like it. The bruising to his flesh had already decreased - almost vanished - and the wound to his throat had been well tended, leading to a nasty scar resembling the fanning wings of a hawk in flight.

It was his ribs that kept him awake now, though. They were knitting back in to place and rebuilding themselves, however the pain had begun to peak in the past few hours. He couldn't take a breath without immense pain, and in his agitation the boy had begun to snap at anyone that came near. He shouldn't have been moving — any rational beast would've known that — but he wasn't rational, he was in too much pain. Offerings of herbs were hastily devoured, leaving him adrift for much of the afternoon but still as irascible as ever.

He had become - unintentionally - fascinated by Undersea's patient. Often times leaving gifts of fish for the medics to pass along or even just keeping a (distant) eye on the cave to make sure nothing came by to further harm the male.

And as such his time from the lagoon became more distant and he instead seemed to be drifting towards an inland life.

Which was fine and well for the most part. The whole island was beautiful even if he found himself deeply in love with the rocky shores of the lagoon. Perhaps he needed to return back there for a few days to reroot that love.

Today he dared to get a bit closer. This time he found himself drifting towards the mouth of the den but not entering just yet. Instead his pale silver eyes peered into its depths with obvious interest. Hello. Rokig's voice was gentle and small as if any loud noise might further break the male.

People often came and went. He was most often tended to by beings he had no name for, but he was more than enthusiastic when visited by the dark Seelie or the pale Maegi, who had become familiar fixtures during his recovery. He sometimes woke to the presence of Reed as well, but she seemed far more rough — very serious, or maybe disinterested in befriending her patient, it wasn't clear and really didn't matter. He appreciated each of them for their quirks, although lately those idiosyncrasies were softened behind the fog of his medication.

When a new face appeared before him, he was almost oblivious to it. But it moved closer, and it smelled like food — strong enough in fact that his belly grumbled and bubbled, feeling quite strange all things considered — but Mou forgot all about that when the stranger spoke. He didn't recognize the voice or the face. Everything that transpired before his arrival on this island had been removed from his mind — he had been, essentially, cleansed and rebooted by the sea.

But he still looked up when the sound came, straining more because of the offered food, and while his golden eye focused precariously on Rokig it was clear by the size of his pupil that he wasn't entirely present, not really.