Wheeling Gull Isle martinique, that montserrat mystique

“Sìthiche. Fairy.”

How perfect! Coelacanth leapt like a spirited filly, her back arching impossibly as she climbed skyward in a grand jeté. Constantine was quick to join her, his stocky frame surprisingly agile in the wavekissed sand, and after they had run for a considerable distance, Seelie whipped about and shaped her delicate musculature into a coy bow. “Come to me!” begged the tuck of her tufted ears, soft and pliant against the slope of her nape; the dark blur of her tail as it whipped eagerly behind her; the dancing tattoo of her catlike paws against the sand. One fawnlike forelimb lifted in mute supplication as she tipped her head to the side. She was eager to show him the lagoon she’d found, and as the moon reached its zenith she knew there was no better time than now.