From Marauder of the Lagoon to Prisoner of the Peak. It was a far less exciting title than he cared for that he had now. He'd have fought for himself if he'd had the chance but Nahawi had been there instead, and Isengrim could not help the nagging feeling that his former boss had thrown the fight just to get rid of him. It was not as if anyone had come to try and collect him or earn his freedom afterwards. He was forgotten the moment he stepped out of the Lagoon that had become his home for the last year. He was far more grizzled than he'd been back then, dark scars cut across his speckled hide and he bore thicker fur around his ankles and throatlatch. There was no tearful goodbye (not that he wanted one) or even anyone to send him off.

His walk to the Peak was drawn out and slow, as Isengrim took his sweet time to graze, drink, and annoy his way across the horse-dotted mainland. The stench of the Lagoon still clung to him and he did not look forward to it washing free from his dirt-packed coat. It had been acrid and eye-watering upon his arrival but he had grown accustomed to the smell, his armor of sorts. Even when he'd been off island he sea water could not free him from his duty. But now? Now it would come off. Whether by rain or weathering-wind, the scent would fade eventually. And be replaced by the smell of sky and women. (Not that the smell of women was a bad thing, of course, he was a man after all.)

The Peak was dry, arid, and bright. The sun seemed to beam off the packed orange ground and left Isengrim with a scowl across his dark whispered lips. The stone and dirt was hard beneath his feet and he found that it caused strain in his knees as he walked. He was used to the forgiving earth of the Lagoon and he quickly headed for the shore in an attempt to remedy that. It was less a beach and more of the ground suddenly meeting the water but it was enough. The sand had almost no give but it was better than nothing, he supposed.

Isengrim threw himself down onto his side dramatically. If he was meant to be a prisoner, a prisoner he would be. If anything he'd treat this as if it was a vacation and stretched his legs out dramatically with a loud groan. His round sides rose and fell slowly as he relaxed, his near-white eyes staring off at the distant waves. At a glance he seemed to look just as his mother did. And with another glance he looked as elegant as a beached whale, drying out in the Peak sun.