"Susurrus"
(n.) a low soft sound, as of whispering or muttering or a quiet wind; a whisper or a rustling
The first night he had spent on the beach of the deserted island, he had not recognized it as an island, much less a deserted one; the last glimpse of land he had seen was the tip of Fort El Eal, so to think he had drifted so far from the mainland would prove to be both shocking and concerning whenever he woke up.
Such things were barely on Troy's mind when he dragged himself out of the water, clawing through the warm sand until he was fairly sure he couldn't feel more seawater seeping into his boots. He did not sleep so much as he passed out, cheek pressed against the sand and the sea breeze rustling strands of dark hair well into the early hours of the morning.
He had stripped off his damaged boots the next morning, much like he had stripped off his pauldrons and light chestplate once the desire to live trumped the honor of a commander going down with his vessel. What a disgrace, he had scolded himself as he faced the waters, to not be able to carry through what should have been his final act in service to Kooluk. He had listlessly gone through the day, managing a meal out of the coconuts along one of the narrow, almost completely overgrown paths that seemed to lead to a high hill on the center of the island. That night, he slept against the tropical trees, listening to the wind send the palm fronds flicking against each other in a strangely comforting way.
The third day brought with it the sight of a strange object floating in the distance, visible from portions of the trail higher up from the beach but not yet obscured by the treeline. A box? A boat? It was difficult to tell, especially without any signs of movement against the deep blue of the sea. It seemed to be drawn in by the tide one hour and then pulled back out another hour, a frustrating tease that he could do nothing about with his lack of supplies. At the very least, it encouraged him to build a fire on the beach that night, in hopes that it was perhaps a piece of important luggage that would lure a ship in his direction. He slept near the fire, the crackle and pop of burning tinder masking some of the sounds of the waves crashing upon the beach.
On the fourth day, the object had come in closer to the beach - and Troy could recognize it now as a rowboat. There were no visible oars, but there was a tarp of some kind strewn over the middle of the boat, as if protecting some sort of cargo. It revived the hope that perhaps it was something that a larger boat would come back for, though it was tempered with a measure of wariness; such boats were also used for sending off the dead, though they were usually lit up before being sent off to sink at sea. That night, he fell asleep quietly humming the tune of a Kooluk funeral song, the slow and melancholic rise and fall nostalgic despite its depressing use.
On the fifth day, he was awoken around dawn by a voice in the distance. After several days without a single word spoken to another human being, it took Troy a good while to believe what he was seeing: someone sitting up in the rowboat, waving at him, calling out even if his words were garbled by the distance and noises between them. Troy paced the beach, contemplating what to do, before heading off to find firewood to distract himself.
By the time he returned to the beach, the rowboat had moved out of the deep waters and into the shallower, clearer waters closer to shore, and its lone occupant had climbed out to begin dragging in the boat to properly moor it. Troy waded into the shallows as well, doing a double-take as he recognized that youthful face and rebellious red bandana that billowed now in the soft breeze.
Lazlo smiled wryly as he looked at his former enemy, moving aside to allow Troy to help him. His voice was soft and calm, belying the terrible power he possessed that had struck such fear into the hearts of many sailors.
"Welcome to my island. I hope you're up for crab tonight."