Wheeling Gull Isle Barren land, a storm that time remembers

He'd gone to the side of the island that faced out into the abyss of the sea. The emptiness pricked at his fur like a cold wind, and honestly, he probably preferred the claustrophobia of a dense forest. Neverwinter was quiet and protected, and out by where the sea hit the island, it was certainly not. Bad memories of wolves past with that backdrop, maybe. 

He didn't linger long, he'd walked along the sand briefly enough to not even get his paws wet, turning sharply away and heading back to whatever cover would be closest and continue walking that way. There was no storm coming, he just wasn't comfortable with the change of sights. He could face the nothingness some other day, there was enough for him to investigate that didn't involve it.

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.

He would have just kept aimlessly walking if he hadn't been called out to, passing right by without a look -- but no, he came to a halt, searching for the one who had done so. It was some guy, he saw eventually. Perhaps if things in his life had been less eventful, he would have remembered the brief encounter he'd had with the man, what the other guy had said... But it had been long enough and it was comparatively an unimportant thing that it was lost to time. So instead he was a stranger. Maybe that was good, maybe that was bad.

Either way, the guy seemed like he'd had a pretty hard life -- worse than Mal's, at least when it came to physical suffering -- and there was some foreign ring around his neck, not that Mal could see it well but it stood out as alien. Then again, maybe Mal was the alien. Sure seemed like he didn't know how to act any more, at least. Awkward silence before he finally bobbed his head slightly, Hey. Pause. Wait. Did the guy want to say something specifically to him? It wasn't like Mal was sure what he was going to say. There was too much abstract emotion that boiled beneath the surface that he couldn't nail down into thought. It didn't make for good conversation.