Cerulean Cape the flung spray and the blown spume and the sea-gulls crying

Roll call post!

Moving north was Coelacanth’s sole instinct, and she allowed it to rule her with or without the companionship of the wolves she’d recently come across. She had allowed neither of them to touch her, leaving the fresh punctures at her scruff a fertile breeding ground for bacteria and infection. At long last she’d bathed her face, revealing a mild case of conjunctivitis that rimmed her eyes in an angry pink and wept a milky white discharge, but self-care was honestly not a current priority for the tiny Groenendael.

Home! Under cover of darkness she’d struck out, following the map of stars, but when a wall of wolfscent began to coalesce in the cleft of the mountains she’d fled, retracing her steps. Panic and habit found her back at the lake where she bathed her face again, sluicing the infection from her Neptune eyes, and this time when she headed out, she headed west. North was home. West was freedom. Home!