Sequoia Coast outside, cold and ghosting out with jetlag

and the end of her howl the shape came; a dart at first until it turned into the white-framed face of lycaon, young and hale and unmistakably alive. she readied herself for collision, her stance wide as she danced around him with his joy reciprocated in the high yips that sprung from her little jaws. she was not one for poetic entrances nor gushy heartfelt speeches -- "it's me, love" she crooned as he leapt about her. she pressed her chin to his soft fur in a gesture of both fondness and maternal intimacy - her son; the only one left -- here on her shores.

she buried her muzzle in his fluff, breathing in the scent of brine and flesh -- her own flesh, as far as she was concerned. her yellow gaze turned to her comrade, the bristle-grey guardian that watched them protectively. "kierke," she started, stepping back and pushing lycaon to face him: "this is lycaon, my son." she afforded a fond smile to kierkegaard and turned to lycaon: "lycaon, this is the wolf that saved me from the rip-tide."