Wheeling Gull Isle the protectorate of seelholm

With Moorhen in tow, the little Groenendael trotted into the shadow of Skybowl, her aphotic fur blending perfectly into the darkness. Questing nose quivered as she poked around in the lightless crevasses, tufted ears swiveling like teardrop-shaped satellite dishes to catch every echo. The glimmer of glowing blue appeared to be coming from the stone itself — a tall spire of rock with patches of swirling, kaleidoscopic color: blues, greens, even deep coppers and reds. Behind it, though, was the sound of falling water, and the scent in the air was sweet as snowmelt. Lifting her muzzle, Seelie sniffed, took a step, sniffed again, and curiously pushed a paw against the wall of rock. There was an entrance somewhere around here — she could feel the air pattern change.

“Skybowl,” she informed the girl in a reverent whisper, nodding toward the mountain. Stockholm had chosen the name, and it was befitting for the formerly domesticated dog who knew that in some circles, water came from bowls — and only if you were a Very Bad Dog did you drink out of the one made of shining white stone. Clambering up one of the miniature ridges, she rose to her full height — she thought she could see a ledge behind one of the smaller waterfalls up ahead, but she wasn’t tall enough to confirm it. The mountain was a wealth of sweetwater, and it cascaded down in rills and rivers, but did not have the capacity to produce teeming cascades or rapids. Slipping was always a danger, but they need not fear being sluiced down a river and into the sea. Turning to Moorhen, she issued a quirk of her elegant muzzle and then repeated her “short girl in a crowd of tall people” pantomime: standing on her tiptoes, rocking from one side to the other as she tried to see something just above her line of vision. Perhaps Moorhen could see a way up?