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+--- Thread: Wheeling Gull Isle fried chicken (/showthread.php?tid=28315)
fried chicken - Ravioli - July 09, 2018
please do not eat this fuzzy pasta noodle
After losing her friend, Ravioli sets out on her own. She has nowhere in particular to go and no friends to turn to. A usual social creature has drifted into a depression of loneliness without a cure. She crosses the paths of a few raccoons but none seem too friendly to open their arms to a stranger and every fox she comes across wants nothing to do with her.
Q-Tip certainly was one of a kind.
Traveling north brings her to the shore, something she’s never seen before, and as the sand opens up before her. The sea is bigger than she can imagine, reaching all the way left and all the way right and alllllllllll the way out in front of her, never ending.
Ravioli sighs, kicking sand beneath her feet. Not even such a wonder can bring her out of the funk as she moves closer to the water, putting her hands in the frothy tide. She does not know the danger the water brings and before she knows it, she’s a little far out and a small wave knocks her down in surprise, followed by another that drags her a few feet back with it. Now wet and disgruntled, she shakes off, standing on all four feet to fling water every which way. Not paying attention causes another wave take crash into her, and another, and then another, and before she knows it, it’s pulled her all the way out where she can’t touch the bottom or catch her breath.
The young raccoon flails and panics and inhales more water, pulling beneath the surface only to not come back up.
Later in the afternoon, when high tide draws back into the ocean, the water spits out a limp, water-logged form of a raccoon. Ragged, gurgling breaths are the only signs of life as one wave after the next pushes her just a little further up until it no longer meets her in the sand.
RE: fried chicken - Coelacanth - July 11, 2018
Coelacanth does her best to suppress or set aside any negative feelings when she is ensconced in the Labyrinth with her mate and children. The world will hurt them someday, but she is determined — and perhaps this is evidence of her own lingering naïveté — to shield them from it for as long as she can. Today her longing to flee the island and sojourn to Morningside is nigh insurmountable, and she is drawn to the water’s edge, her sad, cerulean eyes gazing across the sea, but her paws set firmly in the sand.
It is a choking, sputtering sound that catches her attention; she fears immediately that it is one of her children, even though she trusts Moorhen and Stockholm to guard them well. Fleet paws kick up a flurry of sand as she wheels around; she is still carrying more weight than she is accustomed to, but the baby weight has already begun to shed. She arrives to see a waterlogged raccoon, still breathing, and though one part of her brain — the wolf; the provider; the huntress — sees the creature as an easy meal, her heightened maternal instinct overrides it. She curls herself decisively around the sodden lump.
Wake up, she urges without speaking, trying to bathe the salt from the raccoon’s face.
It is a choking, sputtering sound that catches her attention; she fears immediately that it is one of her children, even though she trusts Moorhen and Stockholm to guard them well. Fleet paws kick up a flurry of sand as she wheels around; she is still carrying more weight than she is accustomed to, but the baby weight has already begun to shed. She arrives to see a waterlogged raccoon, still breathing, and though one part of her brain — the wolf; the provider; the huntress — sees the creature as an easy meal, her heightened maternal instinct overrides it. She curls herself decisively around the sodden lump.
Wake up, she urges without speaking, trying to bathe the salt from the raccoon’s face.
RE: fried chicken - Ravioli - July 13, 2018
The world that is not this one is different. Quiet, distance, there’s something—music?—in another room, maybe, but she can’t quite hear the words. The young girl floats through the air like waves, the ocean rolling beneath her. Life begins and ends with the ocean. A wolf curls around her.
Eyes fling open and she coughs, wheezes, and sputters, water spitting from her mouth and dripping from her nose. The salt water burns the insides of her chest and nose and eyes, everything is sore and maybe broken—it definitely hurts—and she hardly realizes she’s encased beneath a protective mother. One hands lifts into the air, then out in front of her to grab something, and only feeling damp fur. A second hand follows and she twists away from the licks, raggedly coughing with the added adrenaline coursing her veins.
When Ravioli does realize it’s a wolf, her eyes widen and she can’t catch her breath enough, flinging herself back in surprise.
RE: fried chicken - Coelacanth - July 13, 2018
The tiny hand that curls in the feathery fur at her flank is entirely different from the nursing of her children, but the sheepdog keeps still and continues cleaning the raccoon’s face. When Ravioli turns away from her insistent face bathing, Seelie follows — but she stops when the funny little creature propels herself back with a gasp and founders like a sad, furry turtle. A flighty creature herself, the Groenendael scoots backward with wide eyes as well, looking wildly at the ground between them like a KJ trying to escape from the baby spider horde — “is it on me? is it on me?!” Nothing appears amiss, though, so she drops to her belly and rolls onto her back to meet the raccoon’s gaze in an equally upside-down fashion. It is absolutely inconceivable to the dog that she is the cause of her new friend’s distress.
RE: fried chicken - Ravioli - July 13, 2018
Ravioli used flailing and it was effective enough. She turns over on her side when she realizes the wolf is not around her anymore and she turns her head to search for her. So certain she was dog food, she’d had three heart attacks and maybe she pooped herself a little. When she finds the large canine several feet away, on the ground and on her back, she remains in her awkward position and watches. The former hard wolf features fade away into something narrow and dog-like, friendly and not-so-threatening.
“Am I hallucinating?” she quietly asks (more to herself), and slowly picks herself up onto all fours, the froth of ocean water lapping at her paws.
RE: fried chicken - Coelacanth - July 13, 2018
Oh, man! This new friend talks, unlike `Ohiki and his friends, who never want to give the sheepdog the time of day. She rolls onto her belly and begins worming her way toward the raccoon with her ears slicked back and her tail wagging so hard she’s little more than a walking spaghetti noodle. “Welcome Undersea,” she whuffs delightedly, immediately curious about the masked creature. “Who? What?”
RE: fried chicken - Ravioli - July 13, 2018
Okay, well. This is weird.
She rolls over onto her belly and inches forward in the wet sand. Trusting things with Very Big Teeth has never really been her thing but there’s something she can’t place. Her breathing is ragged, wheezing, and she takes a step back when the dark creature is a tad too close.
“Um,” she starts, raspy, water-logged voice. It still hurts to breathe and she winces when a shooting pain surges through her lungs. “Welcome under sea? I didn’t want to be under there,” she angrily points back against the water, wishing she could get out of it instead of sinking back but the encroaching canine gives her limited space to free herself.
RE: fried chicken - Coelacanth - August 03, 2018
The sheepdog wants to leave the poor, waterlogged creature alone — but between her kittenish curiosity and her doubly enforced prey drive, she can’t. She falls back when the raccoon puts distance between them, not wanting to frighten her, but her muscles are tightly coiled and poised for forward motion. Licking at her lips, she whines entreatingly and paws at the sand with one forepaw, tilting her head to the side. “Undersea,” she breathes, marveling at the small, clever hands, “island name, name…um.” Her feathered ears flop against her head as she tips it to one side, then the other, like a curious bird. “We, of this island, jewel under light of sky and song of sea,” she sounds out slowly and clumsily. Her name for the place is more of a feeling — a wordless song in her heart — but she tries her best. “Undersea,” she sums up.
At that moment, Stockholm appears at his mate’s side, and seems patently unsurprised by Seelie’s attempting to befriend the masked creature. His love for cats makes it easy for him to understand what she is doing here, so he tries to make the little imp feel welcome. In his low, rumbling voice, “You are welcome here, little one,” he murmurs, “and if you ever want to go back to the mainland, you can ride on my back. Should probably stay and get your strength back, though. Nobody will hurt you.” He throws back his head and howls the arrival of the small beast, putting her under the protection of the Aralez and the Overseer. It should be easy to identify her, as there aren’t any other raccoons on the island. It takes some urging before Coelacanth turns away — a lot of urging. She can’t seem to take her eyes off her new friend, and every attempt Stockholm makes to divert her attention is evaded. She looks over him, under him, around him, at Ravioli, until he mouths lightly at the fur of her nape.
It is Seelie’s internal clock that finally warns her away — despite cuddling up beside Moorhen, their honorary big sister, her babies are almost certainly missing their actual parents. “Peace be, little small,” she offers cheerfully to the raccoon, and clasps a sizeable amount of Stockholm’s cheek fur in her mouth, mock-growling as she does a skittery butt dance in the direction of the Labyrinth. His answering chuckle tickles down her spine, and she shimmies into a sprightly trot to beat him home.
At that moment, Stockholm appears at his mate’s side, and seems patently unsurprised by Seelie’s attempting to befriend the masked creature. His love for cats makes it easy for him to understand what she is doing here, so he tries to make the little imp feel welcome. In his low, rumbling voice, “You are welcome here, little one,” he murmurs, “and if you ever want to go back to the mainland, you can ride on my back. Should probably stay and get your strength back, though. Nobody will hurt you.” He throws back his head and howls the arrival of the small beast, putting her under the protection of the Aralez and the Overseer. It should be easy to identify her, as there aren’t any other raccoons on the island. It takes some urging before Coelacanth turns away — a lot of urging. She can’t seem to take her eyes off her new friend, and every attempt Stockholm makes to divert her attention is evaded. She looks over him, under him, around him, at Ravioli, until he mouths lightly at the fur of her nape.
It is Seelie’s internal clock that finally warns her away — despite cuddling up beside Moorhen, their honorary big sister, her babies are almost certainly missing their actual parents. “Peace be, little small,” she offers cheerfully to the raccoon, and clasps a sizeable amount of Stockholm’s cheek fur in her mouth, mock-growling as she does a skittery butt dance in the direction of the Labyrinth. His answering chuckle tickles down her spine, and she shimmies into a sprightly trot to beat him home.