Wheeling Gull Isle the lonely sea and the sky

The little sheepdog follows Cascada like a creature born to a life of attentive servitude; the tip of her nose rests even with the inward curve of the russet-and-honey female’s flank, never presumptuous enough to touch, though the soft rush of her breath occasionally draws near enough to stir the gilt-edged fur. Her Neptune eyes are bright and watchful, her paws are quick and deft, and the set of her shoulders is square. She understands the ocean and she knows how to fish — these are things related to survival, and so she has not forgotten them.

The faint quailing of the younger female’s lithe musculature concerns Coelacanth, and it is her turn to take stock of her counterpart’s injuries — but the few abrasions she espies are minor, leading her to believe that the injuries concern muscle and bone. A low, piping whine of concern wheedles from her lips in an airy undertone as she stops alongside Cascada. “Where does it hurt?” she longs to ask, but the words die within her as they always do, and she merely offers a chaste kiss to the underside of the girl’s slender jaw if Cascada allows.