Wheeling Gull Isle the protectorate of seelholm

“Are we dead?” the motherless girl asked, and Coelacanth’s oversized ears perked in eloquent surprise. She stepped forward, and if Moorhen allowed, would bathe the girl’s face. When she was certain she had the banded seawolf’s attention, “No,” the sheepdog pantomimed with a slow, decisive shake of her head. How alive she felt! If the footing here was not so precarious, she might have danced for joy of it. She, too, felt a sense of safety here — connected to the island and the sea, imbued in sweet skymelt and the ocean salt. Her vivid eyes seemed particularly blue, the turquoise motes in their depths pulled to the forefront by the luminous lights from above. Her happiness was the only answer she could give the mahogany-eyed girl, and she turned her attention to the water with an eloquent sweep of her tapered muzzle. The light from above reflected on the surface below, and as she moved her paws, glowing blue enveloped her feathered limbs.

How good it was to be alive!