Wheeling Gull Isle martinique, that montserrat mystique

Constantine’s low, commanding utterance drew Coelacanth’s attention immediately, and the poor sand crab was given a brief reprieve as her Neptune eyes fitted themselves to the lean, angular construct that housed the wraith’s wounded heart. Somewhat shyly, she met his fiery eyes, her own gaze intent but largely unobtrusive as she searched the handsome planes of his face for chastisement. When she didn’t see any, she unfolded from the hunched posture she hadn’t realized she’d assumed and crossed the distance toward him. Her feathered tail whipped like a live wire, beating with a mixture of anxiousness and agreeableness against her slim hocks, as she gestured eloquently with a twist of her slim muzzle. She had no interest in the seagull aside from vengeance, and she made a quick little scooping motion with the tip of her nose to pantomime rolling it toward the dark wolf, maintaining her respectful distance.

`Ohiki? she thought, her bright cerulean eyes briefly searching the beach. When she found her friend — thought it could easily have been one of his identical brethren — she herded it back toward where Constantine stood and imprisoned it in the heart-shaped curve of her dainty forelimbs. The pale-colored crustacean knitted his claws into the feathery fur of her breast and, for whatever reason, seemed content to remain in the crook of her elbow — and a kittenish purr escaped her as she beamed with shy triumph at the Mayfair. Her eyes arched and laughed, accompanied by the soft huff-huff-huff of her breath. She wanted to talk to Constantine, but the thought of speaking aloud was still somewhat terrifying for the little wolfdog, and she kept to her silence with an eager tilt of her finely-sculpted head.

It lasted approximately three seconds.

“Cons’antine,” she whispered clumsily, the frail susurrus of her airy timbre forever altered by human hands. She knew his name — wanted him to know that she knew it and that she had listened to him at the meeting. She didn’t know if he knew her name, but it didn’t seem terribly important in the grand scheme of things. His hurt was palpable to the empath despite his stoic nature, and though it was not her wont to press or intrude, she stretched her muzzle out to rest her pert chin demurely upon the sand. “Friend?” she wondered.