Whitefish River some sad singers, they just play tragic

Part of fishing was knowing when you were beat. Even a skilled angler knew when to call it quits. The pickings seemed unusually slim today, and Coelacanth was forced to admit defeat after snapping up a single medium-sized winter-run steelhead. This she tore roughly into three pieces, giving the largest portion to the Gampr and securing a piece of the sweet meat only after she’d served the once estranged Shakti woman. Tapered muzzle swept in a low arc toward Olive, urging the mist-shrouded druid to “mangia! mangia!” with an intent flicker of Neptune eyes that brooked no argument. Then, with a loving lick along Stockholm’s jaw, Seelie placed the pumpkin between the three of them and scraped at its steam-softened skin. It was with some reluctance that she ate first, tufted ears folding demurely against her streamlined skull and bright cerulean eyes shyly downcast, but she was not a particularly food aggressive creature and looked pointedly at her companions with a good-natured flick of her ink-feathered tail. “Dig in!” she seemed to say.

Opening the coconut was a project in and of itself — and honestly, her scribe didn’t feel like going into detail about it — so with the combined efforts of Stockholm and Olive, Coelacanth managed to crack the fermented fruit into a few pieces and timorously sampled a sliver. Her delicate nose wrinkled at the coconut’s heady perfume; she sneezed lightly, and didn’t think much about the effervescent, airy way she felt once she was a few bites in. At a whopping forty-five pounds, the Groenendael was a lighter weight than eiderdown, and it was only an abbreviated matter of time before she fully succumbed to the fermented fruit’s intoxicating effects.