Wheeling Gull Isle how to call on old gods

♥!

Axolotl had tried his best not to wake Maera as he slipped from her side early in the first traces of morning. Inexplicably, there was a great reluctance within the leviathan to leave her side and a great desire to simply lay back down and sleep a few more hours beside her but he feels duty bound and he takes to the normal routines that all fledgling packs must undergo taking on the tasks of his own free will. He is glad that the fiery Sveijarn came and is even more so glad that she stayed and did not disappear from him like the divine imagine he wants to mistake her as. Still, in his blissful ignorance of how women work he lets her to her dreams unaware that she was woken already and is upset with him for not rousing her from slumber.

He pauses after a few more steps, lifts his leg and marks another stretch of melding land. The beach, theoretically also belongs to them but their scent markings would never take to the ever shifting sand and rising tide. It is better if the beach takes on a no man’s land — a place where hopefuls can await to be greeted by guardians or leadership. This is what makes sense to Axolotl at least, for if they were made to wait at Sea Lion Shore the way can only be crossed at few times throughout the day with a small time frame to work with and the swim is further than it appears.

He almost misses Maera. No, that isn’t expressly true. It is Coelacanth’s soft whuff that catches his attention first. He kicks back clumps of dirt and sand as he leaves his scent upon the small stretch of borders and deviates only slightly from his rudimentary patrol to investigate. It will take time before he can forget the feral manner in which Coelacanth greeted them — those that she knew — and fears what she may do to someone she does not know. They cannot have her attacking the wolves of the Isle — if Komodo and Ixchel cannot see it then Axolotl will intervene and watch as best he can. Because he does not want to see any one else hurt, because he does not wish to see Coelacanth hurt. In this, he remains steadfast, pragmatic and impartial. Maera is a vision in the sunlight as his glacial gaze slides from the familiar inkblot to the fiery visage of the flame given flesh. “Maera,” He breathes, though for the briefest of moments it catches in his throat. “Coelacanth,” he murmurs to the inkblot in greeting second, his gaze flitting from woman to woman but he stands where he has stopped. Idly, he wonders if he could recruit either …or both to aid him in marking out borders. It an arduous task and even more so alone.