Totoka River cherry soul

She was beginning to wonder when all this would end. Moorhen was certain that things weren't supposed to last this long, but she'd been restless and mercurial since the turn of the new year, and it still showed no signs of letting up. From Seelie's description, she was still fairly certain she'd not yet passed her fertile period - and that was both a relief and a worry that she didn't need. As much as raising her own litter seemed... interesting, she wasn't quite sure she was ready for it. But at the same time, she wasn't sure she was ready to pass that chance up, either.

But that was a worry for another day. For now - grumpy and hormonal - Moorhen was ranging inland once more, on the hunt for more sea lion to sait her desire for red blood. Although she could probably find something suitable on the island, she thought stretching her legs might help rid her of some excess energy. The problem was, as soon as she fought the waves all the way back to shore, she was relatively certain no hunting was going to happen.

Instead, she ranged listlessly up the river, leathery nares twitching disinterestedly as she tried to muster herself for a hunt. It was just that - she wasn't even hungry. She was just bored and frustrated and irritable and nothing she tried seemed to make that go away. Moorhen pawed at the ground, wondering if it might be an actual illness that plagued her instead of the estrus cycle she was expecting.

The bard— lonely and keening— milled along the wind-combed coastline with a cottony blankness to his thoughts. Part of him wished to slink back to Elysium, as they housed the only friendly faces he could recognize, and returning his homeland was simply out of the question. But a restlessness had overcome him; a need to scour the bitter sea strand; and he could not identify its source.  

Somewhere deep in his heart, Teleklos knew Eurycrates was dead.

But it was not in him to accept such a thing. Hope would remain alive until the day he saw his brother's corpse, and so he would hope forever, no matter how slim the chance.

His attempt to chase away the nightmarish consideration that he may never find his beloved was met with the ambrosia of company. He would have rather been left to obsess up and down the seaboard for all eternity, but he became distracted and drawn after the scent, passing the instinctive motions off as mere loneliness. Just as the thrum of the river was coming to its apex, he spotted the ruddy figure of a wiry she-wolf, and he wagged his tail timidly while awaiting her reaction to his presence.

Her senses, lately, had been honed to a razor edge. Or more truthfully: Moorhen was seriously neurotic, lately. So she didn't miss the arrival of the stranger, nor the friendly wag of his tail. The Cairn girl took in everything she could from this distance, eyes narrowed in distrust.

"Elven er fyrir alla," she said flatly, point her nose at the water in a gesture that was half welcome, half command, and all grump. Her ears twisted back as she realized what she'd said. "River," she corrected herself, likely too low for the male to hear. And then in a more carrying voice, "You are... um. Drink?"

Though she couldn't have known his background, and her language was admittedly foreign, the she-ra's tone and manner of gesture brought Teleklos back to the fields of Lacedaemon; where most of his actions had been dictated, and the concept of "free will" had seemed like some distant absurdity. He read her subtle command like a universal sign, and his body started up a mechanical quiver at the chance to simply obey. His ears pressed forward, trying to catch her every word, but alas he could only determine drink.

She only had to suggest he was parched, and suddenly the Lycurgus felt stricken to quench a thirst he wasn't at first aware of. If it had indeed been there at all. He seemed eager only for the ghost of an order— eager to be given a place in life, as he did not know how to make one on his own— and head down, tail swishing, casting her furtive glances, Teleklos loped to the riverside and crouched down besides the churn of ice-water.

He took one or two laps then looked towards the seawolf almost expectantly. I drank, sir. What now?

The wolf listened to her, taking up the offer without question or demure. It was nice not to have to explain herself or repeat her words or worry that they would be taken the wrong way (they sort of had), but Moorhen was in the mood to be a pain in the ass, and her eyes narrowed at what she imagined was a weird hitch in his steps and actions.

When he looked up at her, the eerie feeling only grew. He seemed to be waiting for something and Moorhen - paranoid - whipped her head around to make sure no one was sneaking up behind her. There wasn't. Her bloodred gaze turned back to the male, still highly suspicious. What do you want? she demanded - and that phrase, of course, Moorhen could say perfectly well.

Moorhen was right to be paranoid. But she'd been looking in the wrong direction. Driftwood had been trailing her at a distance off and on since their last meeting—more "on" than "off," really, if one counted the furtive additions of various sticks and baubles to Moorhen's favorite woodpile in particular—and now, having trailed her with increasing worry across Undersea's landbridge and onto foreign shores, he bit by bit unconsciously sped up until he was at a swift ground-eating trot, closing the distance he'd been keeping. He managed to swallow back the small whine that wanted to escape, but as the wind brought him not only another tease of her scent, but also the sudden taste of another wolf—a stranger!—Driftwood's feet suddenly picked up the pace further yet.

Moorhen! It was relief and alarm both intermingled, as well as succinct greeting. Driftwood's long legs burst onto the scene and then very suddenly slowed to a deliberate and menacing stalk for their last few paces as he turned past the bitch's brown side and stopped, half-interposing himself between Moorhen and Teleklos as he turned his face toward the strange male and, with a low rolling growl rippling deep in his throat, pulled back his black lips to offer an impressive array of teeth.

It was more than a little ironic, really: under most any other circumstances Drift would likely have found himself in full sympathy with the lone wolf Teleklos. He'd even bowed his head and choked down a salmon at Moorhen's inadvertent command quite recently, in much the same way Teleklos had obediently imbibed of the river. But today was not like any other day, in some stubborn little corner of Driftwood's mind, and he'd only been growing more helplessly obsessed with Moorhen's scent in the interim since he'd last seen her. Suppressed fury glittered in Driftwood's eyes as he snarled out a few bristling questions of his own to Teleklos. Who are you? And just what do you think you're doing here, stranger?

Driftwood didn't seem to quite wholeheartedly partake of Moorhen's "the river is for everyone" philosophy. At least, not today—not here and now.

As her voice rose, his beseeching gaze dropped; ears flickering backwards with a poet's cowardly sensibilities. He didn't appear to otherwise mind or find fault in her sharpness with him— perhaps used to something sharper still— instead he seemed rather quick to respond to her terseness, just after his swift recovery from an initial flinch. "ηγέτης," he said first, on impulse; then more firmly, and in the common language: "leader. I want you to be my—"

He perked up suddenly, rising smoothly to his dapper height and tensing each of his vibrating muscles as another wolf, and agouti male, came charging up. Teleklos' lip curled and his ears slicked back; defensive towards the sudden aggression shown. The she-wolf's scent made him instinctively protective of her, even if he did not know her, but it quickly reached the fringes of his addled consciousness that these two wolves were together and he was the odd wolf out.

The bard sheathed his grimace and turned his head away from the male, hackles stiffening as he did so. Though he tucked his muzzle back and didn't seem inclined to a fight (or answer any inquiries from the lesser packwolf), his gloss-umber eyes continued to glance helplessly in the direction of the she-wolf, who commanded this situation entirely. Like a dog he searched for clues; clues she wanted him gone, or by some slim, miraculous chance she wanted this other driven brute gone.

Teleklos waited to obey.

Her head cocked to the side at the sound of the strange word, bad mood quickly dissipating as the interaction took hold of her attention. She almost asked after the word's meaning and origin, wondering if it was just another word in the common tongue that she did not know, but he quickly corrected himself. And boy, she hadn't been prepared for that.

"You?" she repeated in surprise, her wording likely confusing to the male. It was not that she had misunderstood the stranger - she was just dumb. Luckily, it was then that Driftwood appeared, calling her name and hopefully distracting the male from her blunder. "Driftwood!" she repeated, clearly displeased with his behavior. He marched right past her, posturing as though he was boss when clearly, the boss was her. Her body language shifted to spell this out for the both of them, but Driftwood was NOT PAYING ATTENTION TO HER!!!

Which was a high offense. The highest. High enough that a random stranger was higher up in her good books than Driftwood was, at least for that moment. She moved up behind him, a blunted eyetooth knocking painfully against the back of his head as she attempted to assert herself with a firm, "No! Bad. Nice to stranger!"

Driftwood's fur bristled out like a porcupine, and his eyes gleamed like fire as the other male responded in kind to his barging in. It was true enough that Moorhen held all the real authority here, and that by rights Driftwood ought to be deferring to her as well, but the gangly-legged male actively worked to block Teleklos's view of Moorhen. Drift didn't like the idea of waiting patiently for instructions, and didn't want to hang back and see if the uppity dog wolf was going to presume on Moorhen's unusually forgiving nature that Drift himself had been so recently surprised by. No, Driftwood was offended, and wanted to make sure preemptively that this creeping loner didn't get any ideas about his packmates. And, especially, about his Moorhen, of all wolves.

The lady set him straight pretty quick however. Driftwood's ear flickered back toward her for a moment as she rapped out his name, but it wasn't until she slammed a disciplinary tooth into the back of his skull that Driftwood was quite literally knocked free from his posturing shenanigans.

More out of surprise than anything, he went tumbling down onto one sideways-skewed furry brown thigh into the dirt before turning a shocked and bewildered expression upon his pack superior. He'd only been trying to protect her, after all! Obviously this other guy was bad news and Driftwood wasn't at all comfortable having him so close to Moorhen. He shifted his wide, unhappy eyes down to her feet, folding his ears back submissively as a little whine escaped him. He shot one last sullen glare in Teleklos's direction before he bowed his own long nose obediently but somewhat sulkily. What was Moorhen doing coming over this way and hanging out with this random jerk of a stranger anyway? Driftwood couldn't quite articulate why it bothered him so very much, but he was dead certain it was unfair and unnecessary, especially when it was somehow inexplicably ending up with himself labeled as the big bad wolf here. ...He resembled nothing more than an overgrown recalcitrant puppy put into a time-out as he hunched grumpily in on himself there on the shore of the river, deliberately though with some difficulty making himself shorter than Moorhen, but though he did let out a tiny resentful huff of breath he he didn't offer any further resistance to either Moorhen's demands, or to the pair of other wolves' attempts to converse.

Teleklos watched the reprimanding of Driftwood with concern and understanding, because though he could hardly step out of line himself, he was familiar with watching his war-bred brothers be corrected for their mistakes. He had sympathetically felt each blow as intensely then as he did now, and he took no pleasure in seeing the dusty seawolf get what he deserved.

With the whipped dog now booted from serving as Moorhen's blockade, the bard swung his muzzle back towards her, and ducked his head in deference towards her obvious might. I do not wish for that to happen to me, his posture quailed; slim tail wagging fiercely between his hocks as he scooched bravely forward and sought the skeletal-marked female's favor by presenting his submitted (easily malleable) form for her thorough inspection.

Feel free to do some PPing, if need be!

Punishing Driftwood brought Moorhen no pleasure, either. Not only did her gums hurt after the glancing blow, but the surprise in his face and defeated curve of her body had her heart twinging uneasily. As soon as he showed the proper deference, her temper cooled, and she laved a rough, apologetic kiss over what would surely soon be a bruise.

Her eyes flashed up to the strange as he crept forward, and she moved to stand protectively over her packmate just in case this deference was a ruse. As much as Driftwood had offended her, she was still quite protective over the male. And as much as Driftwood was confused by her actions, she was confused by his. Didn't he know it was her job to do the protecting? And yet, she found herself strangely flattered by his worry and possessiveness over her - hadn't she wanted just that from Szymon? Part of her wanted to give in to those desires, and to let herself be fussed over and protected. But her nature would not allow for her subordinates to place themselves over her in this way, and Moorhen supposed it was just another sign pointing to the truth: those days, that kind of security... it was lost to her.

But it was not lost to Driftwood. She flashed her teeth at the stranger, not warning him away, but that she would tolerate no funny business. Her body language, however, was already shifting to reflect the other's friendliness. Her tail, still set in a high arc behind her, began to flutter encouragingly. She altered her stance slightly so that she was standing between them instead of directly over her packmate, and began a rough examination of the other wolf, her strong figure eventually pressing his belly to the ground as she stood straddling him, poking her nose rather rudely at the base of his tail. Satisfied with his compliance, Moorhen retreated a step or two from them both, so that they stood in a roughly equilateral triangle. Nice to each other, she insisted, narrowing her eyes at them both. But then, she gave another wag of her tail and introduced, Moorhen. Driftwood. From Undersea, islann. Each proper noun was pointed out in turn. Naame? she asked the stranger.

Good to know, thanks!  ;)  And it shouldn't be a problem if you'd like to PP Driftwood here some, too, though he's admittedly not being all that, um, interactive right now. *snorts*

Driftwood was melting into a fuzzy puddle of resentment, his bones seeming to dissolve bit by bit into the ground as he tried very hard not to stare murderously in Teleklos's direction. The back of his head was stinging worse as time went on, which did very little to improve his mood—until Moorhen offered his skull a forgiving little lick there. Driftwood's whole mien brightened, and although he didn't quite smile, the furrows in his forehead evaporated and his half-tucked lifeless tail even reawoke with a few softly pleased thumps as Undersea's Akhlut moved to hover protectively over him. This made the whole experience just about worth it... just about. Despite the newfound openness of his face though he still shot the loner another furtive leery look. He was glad to next glance upward and see Moorhen's teeth flash in Teleklos's direction...less glad however as her tail waved in the stranger's direction and she stepped over and past Driftwood's slumped form to stand nearer the other, and then started inspecting the other's form, worse yet. Driftwood's muzzle wrinkled anew, but he slumped down to the sandy gravel he was staring at again without saying a word.

He resented the stranger's properly-shown deference to Moorhen (although really, given her obvious willingness to engage in some violence to get her point across, who wouldn't kowtow—but Drift resented the guy's wordless wisdom and discretion even so), and the sympathetic looks he was getting offered by the guy, and the way that he got to be closer to Moorhen right now than Drift, her pert black nose practically embedding itself in this guy's tail... Okay, fine, so there was very little about Teleklos that Driftwood didn't strongly resent right now, fair or not. The Seawolf's sour expression lightened a little as Moorhen stepped back; he flattened his ears and wagged apologetically at her warning glare. I'm behaving, see? I'm not threatening him. I'm being NICE, even if it just about chokes me to do so... Still sulky, but cooperative enough. Hopefully. For his sake.

Particularly while Moorhen was looking at Teleklos instead, Driftwood began to quietly ooze his way across the cold ground, keeping his belly hugging the earth but moving one paw at a time in what he hoped was a subtle fashion to get closer to Moorhen again. And maybe even between the two of them once more, if he was fortunate...though Moorhen had made her displeasure pretty clear, and if she so much as looked at him he wouldn't move to physically intervene. In-between these little scoots though, he backed up Moorhen's words with a surly little corroborating: Wheeling Gull Isle. Normally he'd indicate a direction and offer a few more relevant details—but he didn't feel like it today, kthxbai. Besides, Moorhen had already told this jerk the location of their top-secret base with the point of a nose, now hadn't she.

But see? SEE? I'm playing nice even so. I've even talked to him now. A little. ...And so now you can send him away. UGH. Slowly-creeping Driftwood glanced warily back, to make sure Moorhen's tail was still reasonably affably in motion. He bit his tongue and held his growls in check as his eyes swung back nearer Teleklos.

Rather use to not having a will of his own— which was perhaps why he did not belong in the live-and-let-live atmosphere of Elysium— Teleklos accepted Moorhen's ungentle scrutiny with uncertain, encouraging flutters of his tail. Though not as tall as his breed could allow, and certainly not as brawny as Eurycrates or Anaxander, the bard was a sturdy, well-made wolf who didn't flinch while he was frisked by the coastal police.

The pale-ribbed regent stood back, letting Teleklos rise; and he shook himself, letting loose an anxious and eager whine as if he lamented being freed from the invasive closeness. He would have begged to search her as well, and be close again— as her scent was rather titillating— but her stalker was worming his way intentionally between them again, causing Teleklos to stiffen cautiously. Though eager to get to know Moorhen, he was (to a much lesser degree) interested in the agouti Driftwood as well, and felt only defensive in regards to himself. "I am Teleklos Lycurgus," he introduced formally, ears forward, and lean body edging slowly towards Driftwood with a brave and politely interested snuffling. "I have no home."

Driftwood offered a name that Moorhen wasn't entirely familiar with, and that she associated only vaguely with their island home. He was still clearly recalcitrant, but Moorhen didn't know how to fix that, and she supposed his submission was enough. He didn't have to like the stranger. Moorhen wasn't sure she liked the stranger, although her certainly seemed nice enough.

Truthfully, she was tired of both their company. She was not disinterested in getting to know the stranger, but the were both crowding her at a time where she valued her personal space - mostly because Driftwood had caused her spine to prickle with his theatrics. But at the news that Teleklos - she was going to have to practice that on her own before trying it in company - had no place to call home, she decided it would be smarter to stay. Welcome to Undersea, she offered - and although the wording was confusing, her tone probably made it clear that it was an offer, and not a statement of induction. Her focus shifted to Driftwood for a moment, ears pressing forward and eyes narrowing to reassert her sovereignty. If you are nice. Undersea is nice wolf only, she explained, speaking to Teleklos but emphasizing these words for Driftwood's benefit. She was not entirely displeased with his unfriendliness and mistrust, aware that she had often played this role in the shadow of Coelacanth's niceness, but certainly didn't serve her purposes today.

Driftwood's beetling forward progress was halted when Moorhen shot him a suspicious, narrow-eyed look. Drift swallowed back another whine—it wasn't fair, why should he get these withering looks and not this stranger. But Teleklos had just loosed an anxious whine of his own, and the last thing Driftwood wanted to do was copy this disagreeable guy. If Moorhen was going to be swayed by whinging then Teleklos had already beaten him to it, and while Drift was often not the wisest wolf when it came to social niceties he was fairly certain at least that no one was likely to be impressed by a pale imitator. Especially Moorhen, who seemed to him to be all too difficult to impress even at the best of times.

Much as it stuck in his craw though maybe he should try a different tack here, if he did indeed wish to win her approbations. Instinctively Driftwood's tawny lip twitched as Teleklos leaned in closer bit by bit, but the Seawolf suppressed it quickly. After a frozen moment he cautiously outstretched his own nose for a moment's intent sniffing of his own. Driftwood licked his lips nervously, and then shot Moorhen a look of astonishment as she invited the intruder to join their pack. What?! Oh, Driftwood supposed it was a typical thing for Undersea denizens to be pretty accepting and welcome virtually anyone with open arms and wagging tails, but...but...! Moorhen's words seemed pretty pointed, though, and Drift's yellow eyes widened a fraction further as the implication hit him: non-nice wolves just might find themselves uninvited. (Could she do that?! Oh gosh, of course she could, and would if he kept annoying her too much—) Driftwood tamped down hard on the protests bubbling up in his throat and instead looked back at Teleklos with a single forced wag of a tail himself. Play nice, he reminded himself, a small line of worry creasing his brow again at the effort. Play NICE.

Yes, Undersea is happy to let almost anyone in, said Driftwood, his tight little smile perhaps showing a few more teeth than necessary, but nonetheless it was a smile, at least. I'll even show you around the island if my Akhlut so desires, an offer Drift for once was not entirely happy to make—but thought it would at least get this Teleklos fellow away from Moorhen, a problem for which Drift was not able to think of many other solutions at the moment—though he couln't help but add, though I wish to make sure her safety is made certain of, first. Of course. Yeah. Sure. Her safety and well-being, that was all this was about...this superior of his who'd been literally standing protectively over him a few breaths before. But Driftwood hoped this thin excuse would satisfy Moorhen, at least, and maybe even make her reconsider, at least a little... There was a grain of truth to it, as well: Driftwood had not forgotten Aditya, nor his attack on Coelacanth in particular and, in Driftwood's mind, the idyllic peace of their island as a whole.

Something about one or both of them seemed off-putting to the male. He departed from them, his reasons not quite understood by either wolf, but surely appreciated more by one than the other. Moorhen rounded on Driftwood when he was a good distance away, her ears pressed forward in irritation.

"Why are you mean to him?" she asked, halfway between irritated and just - helplessly confused. She'd always thought of Driftwood as very nice, but kind of a pushover. This new behavior didn't make any sense to her.

Teleklos ghosted away, perhaps feeling a little too much pressure from the wolves on opposing sides both pushing and prodding at him, mostly metaphorically in Driftwood's case but pretty literally in Moorhen's. Before he could second-guess it a heartfelt sigh of relief escaped Driftwood at the other male's departure, the tension in his body dissipating along with it until he caught the look Moorhen wheeled on him with. Drift cringed and hugged the gravel to him. His hunched form now offered no resistance or disagreement to her whatsoever.

Her question pulled whatever other things he'd about to say up short. Driftwood himself wasn't even sure of the answer, to be honest—something felt so very off-kilter and unusual about his actions even to himself, but he couldn't quite put his paw on it. But a question from his superior, especially Moorhen of all people, demanded an answer, and so he found himself unthinkingly blurting, He was being far too familiar with you. Drift caught his tongue between his teeth and halted there, his wide, astonished eyes almost comical as his brain churned back over what he had just said. That...wasn't quite what he had expected his voice to offer up. Although he also didn't know what he was supposed to have said, either. Hastily he tried to halfheartedly amend it with, It was worrying... I mean, that's...what if he turned out to be like Aditya, or something? I didn't want to see him hurt you...or anything. The apprehension in his gaze wasn't all for Moorhen herself though as Driftwood looked helplessly up at her. He felt like he should say something else but couldn't think of anything that wouldn't likely just make everything worse. Which in turn had Driftwood concerned that maybe Moorhen was going to turn around and leave him, too, forever... although it was baffling on some level as to why that should bother him so much. But I feel like I was only just starting to get to really know her... And something in him had hoped to further that acquaintance, true. But now he might have bollixed that whole thing up singlehandedly in one fell swoop. Driftwood swallowed hard and cringed in upon himself in increasing misery. He didn't think she'd go so far as to throw him out of Undersea now, as well, but...but...

Sheesh, good going Driftwood. You've really stepped in it this time, haven't you? He hoped Moorhen could find a forgiving mood within herself pretty quickly here, but somehow in the roiling pit of his stomach he doubted it.

Moorhen stood still for a moment, still quietly fuming but unable to fully refute the male's reasoning. After all, she worried quite often that visits from strange wolves would turn out the way they had with Aditya. It was exhausting to live in that sort of fear, but she didn't know how to stop worrying about it, either. Still, something about what Driftwood said had bothered her, and it was difficult to decide exactly what.

"You would fight for me?" she asked after a moment, remembering something that Aditya had said of Coelacanth. As soon as she spoke the words, several different ideas - previously vague and nebulous - snapped into clear focus. Driftwood had followed her from the island, and had come between her and Teleklos already bristling. He didn't know Teleklos; he was just another male and he didn't want Moorhen around him. Maybe, she thought, eyeing the male uncertainly, maybe we are all worried there will be another Aditya. But a quieter, more insidious voice whispered, Maybe he is the next Aditya.

Regardless of his answer, Moorhen needed time to think. "Go home, Driftwood," she commanded. "I will come back soon."

Driftwood caught his breath and felt his heart thundering in his chest as he spotted the smoldering anger burning deep in Moorhen's exotic dark red eyes. Was the fire about to spread and consume him along with the rest of the landscape around them, like a lightning-struck forest fire gone out of control? Driftwood swallowed hard and tried to shove his fanciful mental imagery down deep enough inside himself that it would stay good and buried. Moorhen's patience was obviously stretched plenty thin enough today without having to deal with any additional such nonsense from him.

I would, said Driftwood unhesitatingly, though he quickly and fumblingly amended it in a dwindling voice with, I—I would fight for you that is, that is...if you wanted me to. Oh who the hell was he kidding. Like he knew the first thing about fighting anyway. Like Moorhen would ever want a cowering furball like he was presenting now to be some sort of defender of her person or honor or anything. ...He had no real concept of the notions that were occurring to Moorhen herself in this moment: he was too busy worrying about just how pathetic and unlikeable a picture he was presenting. And a creeping little whisper inside him was wondering if there was some other aspect he ought to try and buck up and present that Moorhen would find more likeable. But—no, he'd better not push it any further, not unless he really did want to get himself kicked out of Undersea. She was already angry enough! He didn't need to make another misstep that would add more fuel to the fire.

Besides, Moorhen made it pretty clear in short order exactly what he should do. I— oh. O-o-kay, he managed, his throat tight, his tail clenching itself tight to his rump and curling despondently under. Of course, Moorhen, he near-whispered, and cringingly fled. He didn't know what to do with the overwhelming storm of emotions that chased inescapably after him no matter how much he stretched his strides, except to curse himself for a fool with every lengthening step. He ran until he was out of her sight, but then his footsteps unwittingly slowed. He paused for a moment as his pawpads started to encounter more sand than gravel underneath them. He stood there with one foot irresolutely raised and lifted his nose to take a last deep whiff of Moorhen's inexplicable scent, fearing somewhere deep down inside him that this could very well be the last time he ever smelt it. He was troubled to find himself increasingly uncertain if he could handle that. Just how angry was Moorhen? Might she fume enough to decide to change her mind and stay away for good? And what, if anything, could Driftwood do about any of it if so—besides obey and keep his paws crossed and hope? His head drooped in defeat along with his tail. Go home, Driftwood. His heart and feet both dragged as he turned and trooped obediently island-ward, across the land bridge. Go home and STAY there. He heaved a leaden sigh and fervently prayed that Moorhen really meant it when she said she would come back, and soon. Where was she going so all of a sudden and in such a hurry, anyway, and why did she have to insist that he stay behind, when wolves that meant her ill were lurking out there somewhere in the nebulous wilds of the mainland?