Wheeling Gull Isle take you to the grave i'll ghost

tzedeq; strange and harsh as it leaves the tongue ... saint hates it.

hates everything about this; though they have long since begrudgingly accepted their fate.

they knew their purpose here. sees it in the threads of their dreams, hears it in the spidery whispers of the daedric prince that chose them.

but still!

they are petulant. fussy. fighting it. because they did not want to be here. they wanted to be with the listener, the divine that birthed them. dare not to call her mother.

a soft huff leaves saint's lips; dissatisfaction stamping itself upon their facial features as their non-cursed eye stares at a spot in the horizon from where they perch outside the mouth of the den.

Hey, Z! Caracal greeted brightly as he trotted up to the den and saw the little boy—please pardon this ignoramus—perched just outside. I mean, wazzzzzup? I learned that from a dolphin. True story.

He planted his hindquarters beside the pup and tugged a long rope of slimy kelp from around his neck and shoulders. It fell to the ground in a loop, its green color popping against the sandy backdrop.

Glancing at the little one, he picked up one end of the great leafy thallus and teasingly wiggled a stipe and its blade toward Tzedeq’s snoot.

I picked up these terms from here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kelp

a slow blink is given, but unlike when a cat does it, coming from saint it is not a sign of affection. still, the witchling rebels. fights. thrashes against the web fate has weaved for them.

though in all fairness, caracal and everett were the only fathers they'd ever known.

and in all rights, heda was the only mother they truly knew. though dark flashes of memories, unreliable but coveted and tucked close to the heart by the witchling all the same, of the witch that had birthed them remain. fuzzy but their's.

they watch and recoil as a strip of something slick and leafy is brought close to their snout.

it smells of salt and saltwater and something earthy but not.

perplexed, they bat at it; to push it away from their face. not to play, though the action could be misinterpreted.

Little Tzedeq didn’t seem particularly amused by the slimy green thing thrust in his face. Caracal laughed as he batted it away. It was tempting to persist, though he despite his jokey nature, he wasn’t really one to tease his kids much. It didn’t seem a very godly thing to do.

Letting the kelp tumble to the ground like so much verdant rope, Caracal sniffed and tried to catch the pup’s eye. Along with @Anathema, he was the most difficult for the young father to read. He seemed quiet and withdrawn much of the time, as if maybe he didn’t want to be here. Caracal wondered if the pups had any memory of their life before the island.

Is there anything in particular you’d like to do today, Z? I’m all yours, if you want me, Caracal offered, grinning and spreading his paws.

they struggle. the magma of words they wish to hiss, words that whisper to them in the throes of their dreams and words that the adults and older cubs speak. but are cut off. unable to escape.

they haven't tried to speak, though due to trauma of being shuffled around so young, sort of remembered in the depths of their subconscious ... or out of spite, the would be saint cannot be sure.

n-no play. it is frustration that allows the words to finally take flight from their throat. a softly melodic and girlish tone that lingers in the air between their adoptive father and them.

she supposes though, besides the company of their own siblings, she would rather caracal's than one of their godly step-siblings.

w-wanna find prewty rocks. it flutters unsure from their lips; tumbling over sounds and stumbling over whole words. it is embarrassing ... and yet, and yet — it is their's.

No play? he repeated, sure he must have misunderstood.

What puppy didn’t want to play? Caracal frowned thoughtfully at the youngster, head tilting. How strange that someone so young should behave like this. Perhaps he was an old soul.

Then Tzedeq said something about searching for pretty rocks. Caracal’s lips pulled into a small smile. The pup’s languid attitude still waved a little red flag in his head. He’d experienced trauma as a baby that had resurfaced later on… might that be what was happening here, with Z and the rest of the adopted litter?

Putting that thought away for now, Caracal said, Sure thing! Lead the way, Z. We can gather as many as we can find, maybe start a collection?