Qeya River they sent me away to find them a fortune

NOTE: In Seelie’s personal timeline, this takes place after her thread with Szymon.

Immediately following the night of celebration, the little Groenendael traced the shoreline eastward. She bade farewell to the pinnipeds and their rocky shoals, danced her way across the mirror-like river delta, and looked with poignant fondness upon Marbas’ island. Restlessly she wandered the cape, nimble paws carrying her past a series of rocky cliffs as she chased a pod of dolphins, stopping only when territory borders forced her to. Kierkegaard’s scent drew her to the sirens’ hallowed ground; and yet, a pressing need to keep moving spurred her onward. At the eleventh hour she bathed in seawater set aglow by bioluminescent plankton — and just as the first glimmers of dawn began to outshine the glittering expanse of stars, the inky ingénue set her sights further north and turned away from the breathtaking radiance that surrounded her. With a single backward glance and a fierce ache in her heart for those she would leave behind — Doe, Marbas, Kierkegaard, Dagfinn, Starbuck, Szymon, and Chusi — Coelacanth left the Teekon Wilds entirely, intent on finding her wayward twin.

A heady combination of joy, excitement, and fading adrenaline made the little Groenendael careless. She bore her share of Szymon’s kill with pride, the swanlike arch of her graceful neck made more evident by the way her finely-sculpted head bowed beneath the weight of her prize. There was, despite her waiflike delicateness, a saucy snap to her fluid, soundless steps, and the renewed brightness of her Neptune eyes restored a sense of liveliness to her inky visage. The deep-voiced murmur of a nearby river caught her attention and she turned toward it eagerly, intent on slaking her thirst. The weather was too cold now and this river too swift to safely submerge within the floe-riddled depths, but the notion of bathing her face and legs appealed to her — she moved with alacrity, widening her stride and admiring the soft crunch of snow beneath her feet.

She rounded a bend and was faced with a titan.

The submissive sheepdog cross’ response was dictated by wild instinct alone; her body responded for her, an atavistic compulsion cradling her tiny form into a position of eloquent submission. Ink-plumed tail swept low, sketching a signature in the frost between her hocks, as her carriage dipped and her ears folded demurely against her head, their trademark tufts tangling in the dusty fur at her nape. Her fangs held on to her prize for a moment too long, perhaps, before her slim jaws slackened and she laid the chunk of mountain goat willingly upon the earth, and her blood-streaked tongue licked carefully at her lips in an appealing way as she turned her seablue eyes away from the ash gray behemoth. At this point, she didn’t know whether he had noticed her or not — she had responded to the sheer size of him as her vulnerability as a loner and a halfbreed dictated. Even with his head bent, his battle-hardened musculature and great height cut an impressive silhouette.