Ankyra Sound a grey mist on the sea’s face

When the verdict comes, Coelacanth responds with a depth of hurt only a dog can express. Torn between wanting to belong somewhere and being too afraid to let anyone close enough to reach that point, she turns her pleading eyes upon the females in whom she placed a frail modicum of trust — but although Eske is merciful enough not to attack her outright, the flash of her alabaster fangs leaves no illusion as to her intent. Absurdly, the diminutive sheepdog believes that this is a reflection of her absolute lack of worth rather than a territorial nature, and she gathers this information in and holds it tightly to her breast as she gets shakily to her paws and limps away. West is freedom. North is home.