Wheeling Gull Isle salt sting

She will be back next round!

The tiny Groenendael flinched back reflexively when her patient jolted awake, a strangled cry wrung from his lips when he wrenched away from her. She borrowed a modicum of his pain and drew it unto herself, her empath’s soul choosing this unfortunate moment to surge to the fore — but took heart at his apparent appetite, even when he stared at her coldly, seeking further sustenance to settle his sea-tossed stomach. “Peace be,” she whispered to him, a warning as much as a greeting, spindly limbs moving fluidly to elevate her. She stood before him, her Neptune eyes fixed with pained concern upon his gold-limned visage, and wished he did not look so much like Aditya.

Daring his tolerance, she made to lave the salt from his crown with her tongue — to taste his scent and comfort him — and if he allowed, her tender ministrations would wander down the slope of his neck to his withers. She learned from his scent that he was of generally good health aside from the typical maladies of a loner compiled with the wrath of the sea; he was younger than her, which she found comforting — mainly because that way, he could remind her vaguely of Driftwood instead of constantly tormenting her with images of her singing, dancing dost. Mera dost.

It was in this way that the winter raven and the Earthstalker would find her, hovering over the pack’s newest tauhou with a worried expression. Without looking at Komodo — an easy feat, given her fussing over the poor wolf, “Flotsam,” she offered succinctly, her vague reply suggesting that she had not questioned him overtly. Given his fervor for the berries, she decided that she would go fetch some more food for him to help him gather enough strength to trek inland. “I — g-get food,” she informed them both, disappearing like a ghost in the island mists to raid one of the caches.