Wheeling Gull Isle the protectorate of seelholm

Coelacanth bounced excitedly as Moorhen reared up like the horses of the veldt — oh! she would have to show Moorhen the horses! — and the buzzing energy that shimmied down her supple spine in a full body wiggle only intensified as the girl began to speak. She nodded emphatically when her suspicions were confirmed, though she didn’t understand the expression on the girl’s face. Truth be told, the sheepdog had grown so used to thinking of the banded seawolf as her lamb, she didn’t think twice about calling the shots or surging forward without asking for input.

Settling her weight on her hindquarters, Seelie too reared, but it was more illustrative than anything else. “Let’s go!” the gesture bespoke, picking her way carefully up the ridge upon which they stood and rooting around until she found a safe way to clamber atop the ledge. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she turned to make sure Moorhen was keeping up, and her behavior was entirely congratulatory, rife with praise. “Look at this cool thing you found! I am so proud of you!” she seemed to say, licking feverishly at the underside of the girl’s muzzle.