Wheeling Gull Isle Walk the Plank, Ye Scurvy Dog

He'd missed her on his way in—at least, he was fairly certain he'd remember running into this extraordinary of a specimen. He'd never before seen any wolf quite like her; she looked and moved like the shadow of a faerie on the breeze, her slim frame's unusual shape accentuated by exotic fringes of dripping, storm-tossed inky fur. Where the sun scattered off its deep expanse, it seemed to hold the shadows of the sea, as well, the shining blue glints recalling the depths from which she had perhaps sprung. The overall effect was rather entrancing, especially for one who couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a fellow canine. For just a minute he had to wonder to himself: had he somehow reached the spirit world, or some other bewitched and utterly foreign lands? Watching the female before him swaying and dancing among the paradisiacal island setting, it seemed entirely possible.

She was staring at him most directly, without a word, and for a long moment Driftwood stared right back at her, disconcertedly. His body began to lean back, hunching away from her just a little and moving one sandy tan paw back an uncertain half a step, furrowing the sand. He felt more crude and awkward than ever, in her intimidating presence; perhaps her bright pinning gaze and imperious silence was judgement passed upon an over-arrogant mortal who trespassed upon magical lands and presences far beyond their ken. She had drifted around him with a wide buffer of sand kept between the two, floating along and perhaps not even physically contacting the sand at all, it seemed to Driftwood; was she a wolf at all, or a fey spirit in disguise? He blinked, and then self-consciously realized that he was staring, quite rudely, and dropped his eyes to her neat black toes instead. He could still taste her scent quite clearly on the air, however, far more alluring and fascinating than most wolves' scents he could recall... but while she might be languorously measuring her svelte length against the trees' widths, he rather doubted she was here to flirt. There was a definite covetous possessiveness in her every move, from the rough brushing of bark against fur to the authoritative directness in her strides. It was more as if she was flaunting not only her ownership of these lands where he didn't belong, but also her body, which he obviously didn't have the authority to claim either. While she was plainly not one to waste words, her body language was screeching volumes, here... making thoroughly sure that he knew down to his bones just who was in charge and laid claim to this territory.

And he did know. He sat there consciously telling himself to behave, willing his tail to tuck itself between his legs and his head to stay deferentially low. He wasn't quite entirely certain how flesh-and-blood she was, whether she was a queen among the island's faerie people or just the local pack, but either way he truly did not wish to argue his much more lowly status. His tail did beat against the tawny insides of his legs, however; it was difficult to contain himself, seeing a face that looked anything like his own after so long in the company of birds, bees, and random walruses and the like. He'd been living off of rodents and the occasional not-too-rotten fish, as she could probably scent upon him even after his saltwater bath, but more importantly he'd been doing every bit of it alone. It was so incredibly nice to see a canine face once more, however alien, and even if it was obviously fully engaged in judging him from on high at the moment. She approached a little closer as he apprehensively watched out of the corner of his eye—the queen deigned to greet the bedraggled peasant! Truly. It was so very nerve-wracking and exciting both. She loosed a commanding puff of a woof at him, which he fancied held a hint of disapproving disdain as well, and Driftwood cringed down a little further, dropping his driftwood chunk to the sand with a hissing thud. He glanced over at it in surprise, but let it lay there for now—more important things to consider than his little treasure. But when, looking shyly up at her via a quick side-flicker of gold eyes, he saw how her piercing blue eyes kept eagerly tracking the large stick's movement, he reconsidered, and croakily blurted out without thinking.

Oh, I'm so sorry—is this your bit of wood? Did it come from one of your trees perhaps? I found it here, I hadn't thought it belonged to anyone, but please— if you would like it back you may certainly have it. I didn't mean any harm, or uh, disrespect... He hesitated an instant, his neck crooked stiffly downwards, and then made so bold as to actively nudge the small greying log toward the ethereal shadow staring down and passing judgement upon his soul. Please, milady, take this offering in the peace and goodwill in which it is sacrificed... and indeed Driftwood did feel just a bit of a pang at giving the wave-weathered beautiful piece up, but getting back onto the right side of the locals was far more important. Especially since right at the moment he still wouldn't quite bet on this alluringly bizarre creature not being able to smite him with waves and lightning where he stood, or something very like. I didn't want to come here and steal anything. Really! Her very continuing silence and grace helped put him a little more on edge. She seemed to possess so bountifully much of both as she stood there, guardian of the sands and the trees, and he...he obviously possessed so very little of either, as he stood here humbled, out of place and drenched down to unimpressive lanky twigginess. Her adroit motions and glittering sapphire gaze just made him feel so judged, and unworthy! Or was that just the slightly guilty projections of his conscience? He really should have peed in the water, shouldn't he— but just the thought of wading back out there again made him shiver a little more.