Wheeling Gull Isle wanderer, what are you searching for?

Like wind-whipped butterflies, Coelacanth’s tufted ears fluttered, and at the first sign of life from the strange wolf she hopped nimbly awry — as though his first frail overtures of speech were a cutting snarl.  Twin petals skimmed uneasily against her skull before springing forward again.

“Kaun hain?” she mimicked uncertainly in a breathless whisper, edging nearer to minister to him.  Wary of the fangs and sharp words that could wound and flay, she tenderly angled her finely-sculpted head and, if he allowed it, made to gently bathe the salt from his face.

“Seelie,” she whispered timorously.  “Friend?”