Wheeling Gull Isle wanderer, what are you searching for?

Comprehension glimmered in the sheepdog’s seabright eyes, but sorrow surged to meet it. Wordlessly she lifted her head, tracking the empty shoreline with a characteristically intense gaze, and returned her attention to the golden-eyed wolf with somber eloquence.

Whoever this Nando was, he had yet to find his way to Undersea’s shores.

Speaking at length was both physically and emotionally taxing for the feather-furred empath, who drew in a trembling breath at the weight of weariness she borrowed from the stranger. Still, because he had asked her, she tried her best to deliver: “Here is Unnersea,” she breathed, brow furrowing as she quickly corrected her faulty pronunciation. “Undersea.” It was…an okay name. Stockholm and Komodo had let her choose it, but the names she really liked were far longer. For all she was a mute, Seelie came from a family of wordsmiths, and though she lacked the basic faculty to breathe life into them herself, her mind was a bustling whirlpool of psalms and stories.

The Jewel Between Scylla and Charybdis!

The Land Under Reign of Sea and Sky!

The Shores Blessed by a Hundred Seas!

The Stormborn Wolves of a Thousand Tides!

In his laconic, plain-speaking way, Komodo had gently suggested that these names — and the myriad others Seelie managed to eke out over the weeks that followed — were a mouthful for any wolf. [He made sure to sugar this suggestion with double handfuls of praise for her creativity.] Even Stockholm, who was generally content to let his sheepdog sprite do whatever she wished, seemed to agree. In the end, Undersea worked for a variety of reasons: the path to reach the island was beneath the surface; it was easier to say than Hundred Seas; and it reminded the whimsical Groenendael of one of her favorite story settings: a lost kingdom at the bottom of the sea.

Though her Neptune eyes were sad, she smiled shyly at the bourbon-and-cream wayfarer. “N-Name?” she asked him, a little tongue-tied at her boldness. “Come with me,” she begged, pulling off the difficult consonant blend with the tip of her tongue pressed deliberately betwixt her incisors. “I — Seelie — make you better.” Her pert pink tongue darted out to lap at the salt that crusted the fur at his elbow. Even this small amount of speech had exhausted her, so she resorted to body language to convey what she wanted: she danced away on nimble paws, then circled back, one tufted petal tipped toward the wolf and its mate turned inland where she so longed to bring him.