Wheeling Gull Isle no resentment ever evened out a weaker hand

The little Groenendael cocked her head first to one side, then the other, brow furrowing with concentration as she regarded the broken body that she believed still housed a kindred soul. She didn’t know how to answer Reed’s question. Not really. She had never seen a wolf survive wounds as grave as Titmouse’s. Hemlock, with her grasp of the spoken word, was better equipped for conversations like these, but the sheepdog tried her best. “We, um…” she breathed, “ever must fight and fight, death not take him.” He was in terrible shape, though — he required regular recumbency changes to keep him from getting bedsores and needed to be moved frequently to prevent scalding when he inadvertently relieved himself. The pain he suffered when he was touched, manipulated, or moved flared like a beacon to the inkdark empath, but his healers had no choice.

“He is Teamouse,” she offered softly, butchering his name, utterly unaware that he’d been known as Screech long before she’d met him. She motioned to his ears, which had twitched. “Mou, you hear us?” she asked him softly, licking entreatingly at his mouth.