Wheeling Gull Isle a tall ship and a star to steer her by

“Coelacanth Corten,” spoke a particularly wild looking wolf, his pleochroic eyes looking more green than blue in the eerie glow of the worsening storm. The words meant nothing to the sodden little Groenendael, though; she merely registered his tone, which was none too welcoming. His voice was all at once like a beacon in the dark, the roar of the sea, and the clap of thunder — and it bore the weight of a command. “No!” was her immediate reaction, finely-sculpted head tossing nervously as she inanely tried to whip around and leap back into the roiling ocean. He was going to ask her what her name was — couldn’t he see that she’d tried to tell him?! — and this time she couldn’t even remember what it was. Did she even have one?

He’d have to bite her again, and this time he wouldn’t give her a second chance.

She was confronted then with another large male, this one with fiery sunglow eyes that briefly held her attention. His voice was gentler, but the words he gave her seemed equally cryptic. There was no glint of recognition in her wild eyes, and she was just as inclined to fight his dominion as she’d been to fight Axolotl’s — but she was abruptly walled in on both sides by the burly angakkuq and a seagleam-silver siren with a nasty looking wound on her crown. The sight of the blood was alarming, but the feeling of being trapped was worse still, and she struggled briefly as though she might throw them all off and jump back into the sea.

It was the weight of her body and not any desire to submit or acquiesce that caused the sodden sheepdog to cease her attempts at escaping those who sought to aid her. She was so heavy and empty and everything was so cold. She dropped her head in a moonlit tableau of abject defeat, muzzle bobbing wearily and bumping against the sand as she stumbled meekly along, supported on either side by Komodo and Parthenos as they sought to follow the harsh-tongued Atlanian and take shelter from the wrath of the warring sea and sky.