Wheeling Gull Isle and i will love you until my last breath and beyond

The sheepdog lingered on the outskirts of Hemlock’s birthing den, her Neptune eyes fixed warily upon the all-too-familiar coywolf who stood sentinel. He was edgy and protective, and she knew she could not chase the male away. Perhaps Stockholm could. It was an idea Seelie had fantasized about, having become accustomed to violence as an immutable part of life outside her family’s stead in Vargas Island — but this was not to say she wished to see it done. She merely doubted that Arturo Fearghal would accept her claim upon the island whose shores he laid bare with the restless strokes of his paws, and upon the wolves who chose to remain.  Uncertain, knowing her voice was too frail a whisper to catch the new mother’s attention, she drew her tiny form to its full height and fixed the witch doctor with a suspicious, characteristically intent eye.

He did not look back at her — but she knew he knew she was there.

At least, she thought he knew.

Another day, she decided at last, her sharp shepherd gaze softening as she melted into the shadows, her clever little paws taking her unerringly in search of Stockholm.