Wheeling Gull Isle sprucing up the place

The charred sequoia for which Coaltree Rise had been named had managed to hold his ground throughout the winterstorm. He was a few decades younger than the Mother Tree (she often wished he was one of her ilk; he’d look much handsomer as a spruce, thank you very much) but the pied sea crows exchanged secrets between them, coal and dust and pollen and rain caught betwixt in their hooked talons, and the two arboreal giants were quite fond of one another.

Today the birds’ flutterings spoke of death and decay: the bloated remains of horses, drowned by the crashing surf; and the broken bodies of blacktailed deer, trapped beneath felled trees. Already the beavers were rebuilding their dams; the birds were rebuilding their nests; the seawolves had returned to Wavewrack Lagoon. With a creak and a hiss of her somewhat threadbare boughs, the blue spruce tried to shake the seawolves into action.

Moorhen didn't speak tree, but her instincts were speaking loud enough that it didn't matter much. She wasn't brooding, not yet, but she was being driven to conquer and a messy island just wouldn't do for her suddenly very delicate sensibilities. The Cairn swept a bloodred glare over the ruined landscape and made a grab for the first piece of debris she could find - a long, scraggly bough of spruce.

Irritably, the shewolf began dragging it to a relatively flat, unused area of the island. It wouldn't get rid of the branches, but Moorhen already had an idea of what she wanted. Sure enough, several hours later, there was a large pile - larger indeed than Moorhen herself! - of driftwood and broken branches. Her jaws ached from the effort, but she was quite pleased with the results. And it sure was nice, as far as large piles of wood can be considered as such.

That taken care of, the banded woman began making her rounds, the urge to do something resting uncomfortably in her gut now that her project was finished. She busied herself with a few bits and bobs, and set aside a nice jawbone for later perusal - but, by and large, found herself wandering most idly.

Feeling vaguely unsettled and discontent, Moorhen snatched a random dead fish from the ground and set off in search of @Coelacanth.

I’m sorry I made you wait for fifty years. ♥

The Seelholms were out on Coaltree Rise, butchering the bloated horses and trying desperately to salvage whatever herbs they could. Reed and Maegi’s gardens were absolutely obliterated, and so was the field of flowers — but Seelie peered at the shorn grasses and shoots and believed that all would be well once spring rolled around. Cleaning up the aftermath of the storm was backbreaking, bloody, unforgiving work — and Stockholm and Komodo were still working when Seelie called an abrupt down-stay and shepherded the children off to bathe, eat, and rest.

The sheepdog limped along in search of Lucas and Currituck, and this was how she ended up crossing paths with the banded raven. Disheveled, looking slightly worse for wear, she shook out her pelt and greeted the larger female with a gentle smile. Had she been human, Coelacanth might have skimmed her palms along her temples, smoothing a small symphony of flyaways into place before greeting her friend with a considerable amount of flusteration (which really should be a word). I’m tired and delirious and my head hurts. Here, take all my dumb posts. Love you!

Getting back on track, “Lamb,” the Aralez breathed wearily, bumping her nose with rough affection against the taller wolf’s shoulder. “Peace be.”

When Coelacanth approached, Moorhen spat the dead fish at her paws and returned her greeting with a slightly gentler touch, sensing that her Aralez was stretched rather thin, at the moment. "We will repair," she said in lieu of a hello, seeing that the other woman needed to hear these words more than others. And then, nudging the fish toward her fellow leader, "I have - worry," she admitted. "Not about islann."

But she would not go on until her payment had been accepted, so she simply stared at Coelacanth with a hopeful and slightly insistent look on her face. She hated to further burden the other woman, but obviously, there would be no getting through this on her own. Besides, a rotting fish ought to be more than worth a few minutes of conversation, right? Even a deeply uncomfortable one like this.

The little sheepdog’s eyes darted immediately to the fish Moorhen spat into the sand. She wasn’t hungry — stress tended to have an adverse effect on her appetite — but when presented with free food, especially in the form of a gift, she always accepted. Nosing gently at her lamb’s jaw and nibbling at the thicker fur that bordered her cheek, the Aralez thanked her silently for her support and fell to the meal at once. She sniffed and licked at it reverently before tucking in, and her Neptune eyes sought Moorhen’s mahogany ones often, a questioning look ghosting across her delicate features with tender concern. A soft, fluting whine of query accompanied the look of concern, offering an invitation to proceed, and the quizzical tilt of her head marked her unspoken question with a flourish of a question mark.

The Akhlut's bloody gaze darted around to reaffirm their privacy before she settled down and spoke once more. "I think that I want to have puppies this year," she explained as eloquently as she was able; these words had been cobbled together in her head for several days, now. She had been musing over the state of her body for some time now, and over her single lady status for only slightly less time. She knew it took two to tango and she had no idea how to find herself a dance partner. But she didn't know how to explain this to Coelacanth, so she left things at that and waited for the Aralez to read her mind and fix all her problems.

Coelacanth was, unsurprisingly, thrilled at the prospect of more puppies being born to Undersea this year. She knew her body well, and she knew that with the stress of the storm leading up to the breeding season, she was unlikely to conceive. “Peace be,” she breathed, this time as a blessing, rising from her meal to nose lovingly at the larger wolf’s cheek and chin. There was the whole issue of, “Who’s going to help you make the baby?” — but Seelie wasn’t sure how she could help with that. She wasn’t willing to share Stockholm, and the next best wolf she could think of was Driftwood — and oh, she loved him! — but she didn’t think the two of them had much chemistry to speak of. “You will mother well,” she breathed encouragingly, thinking of how little Radcliffe had thrived under Moorhen’s care. “Pack will help. All well, lamb.”

That was encouraging. Moorhen gave a doleful wag of her tail to say that she was grateful for the vote of confidence - but it didn't really help her to feel more confident in herself. She knew that she could keep a litter alive. How hard could it be, right? And she knew that she could do the whole pregnant thing and squeeze those puppies out of there. She was a warrior, after all.

It was just - weird. How was she supposed to take that next step? How was she supposed to become a mother? Did it happen during heat? Or during labor? Or were some wolves just born to be moms and other were more like Moorhen?

"How do I become a mother?" she asked, not quite sure what context she was asking in. It was all pretty foreign to her, so anywhere Coelacanth chose to start, Moorhen would soak it up like a sponge.

Seelie considered it. For her, motherhood hadn’t started until Poppy had passed away, leaving Fern and Mur to the safety of the pack. The feeling of motherhood had intensified once she had given birth to her own puppies — but Doe and Catori, she knew, had adopted puppies who had not come from their own bodies. Seelie wasn’t sure she had ever officially adopted Fern and Mur, in that she had never forgotten their true mother. She loved Moorhen dearly, but she didn’t think of herself as the girl’s mother. “Mother,” she breathed firmly, “many different. From blood and bone, from choice, from need.” She touched her nose to the bulb of Moorhen’s ear. “Protect and care, love ever,” she explained, and for Seelie, that was really all there was to it.

That being said… “To make shark needs sire,” she said apologetically, accidentally dropping the Seelholmism for doing the sex. She did not know how to explain to Moorhen that the whole situation was sure to be uncomfortable and terrifying at first. The best thing she could tell the girl was: “Trust self,” with a tiny stamp of one feathered forepaw. “Moorhen choose sire. Any choice, good girl — Moorhen choose.”

Coelacanth's wisdom did not teach her anything she did not already know. Still, she borrowed strength and surety from the Aralez, and felt a bit more whole after doing so. She thought a moment longer on sires and dams, but ultimately, this was a thing that would be or would not be.

"Thank you," she said to the other shewolf, her prickliness fading as she washed Coelacanth's face in a rare show of gentle affection. She'd been far more effusive in her youth, but her excitement and ardor had faded as she mellowed and aged. Still, she loved the woman deeply, and it was clear to see in her eyes as she gazed upon Coelacanth. "Make shark," she repeated, her voice teasing. And then, in a voice of indulgent exasperation, "Coelacanth." As in, Oh, you.