Panther Park fish in the sea of galilee

The immediacy of Olive and Dakarai’s response startled the skittish little sheepdog badly, and she backpedaled on paws that had gone numb and graceless in the cold. Fortunately, her natural dexterity prevented her from spilling clumsily into the snow and ice; with a stuttered step, she regained her footing and whuffed softly, a pocket of fog billowing from her finely tapered muzzle. Tufted ears fanned forward upon her gently sloping skull as she focused on the ashen sylph’s stricken visage, her Neptune eyes intent and unwavering as she digested what the star-crossed lovers required of her. On tenterhooks she crept closer to the wolf who could have been mistaken for Seelie’s kin if one judged by their coloring alone, and the scent of infection caused her muzzle to wrinkle in worried distaste. It was the wrong season for harvesting, but the tiny Groenendael felt certain she could find something to fight off the infection and ease his pain.

It was to Olive that the yearling looked then, and impulsively — Olive had not hurt her before; surely Olive would not hurt her now — she dipped her head and allowed her feathered ears to fold demurely, tiptoeing nearer to reassure the female whose eau-de-nil eyes were glassy with unspoken weariness and hurt. Seelie outstretched her muzzle, and if the willowy woman allowed it, would brush her velveteen cheek against one cream-furred shoulder. Without being able to verbally instruct the waif on how to prepare Dakarai for his treatment, Coelacanth pantomimed: she motioned toward the snow, scooping with her paw, and turned toward Dakarai without looking directly at him. Shyly she waved her paw in his general direction. If they could numb the area with cold, it would make the cleaning portion of it slightly easier for him.

Edging reluctantly closer to him, she darted a lick toward the bulb of one of his ears before scurrying back to Olive with a measure of desperation: “Protect me, please!” bespoke her plaintive mien. It would be more productive — and marginally less terrifying, she thought — if she did some scouting for what dried herbs she could find while Olive numbed Dakarai’s wound. That way, the whole business would be finished much more quickly. Just in case Olive had not understood Seelie’s pantomiming, the atramentous ingénue inched closer to Dakarai once more — gathering snow in her muzzle, she arched her swanlike neck and allowed it to dribble from her lips over the angry looking wound. All the while she looked at Olive, repeating the gesture two more times and then stepping back with an airy, toneless whine. “Do you understand?”