Whitefish River some sad singers, they just play tragic

The further the pair traveled from the shores of the island the lighter the weight of burden seemed to feel upon Stockholm’s shoulders. His failure was still never far from his thoughts, but the travel necessitated his focus be in the here and now, and the warmth of Seelie’s ever-present affection soothed away many of the uncertainties and concerns that otherwise would have plagued him.

She continued to surprise him in many ways – the ingenuity of cooking the foraged pumpkin, for one, was something that never would have occurred to the Armenian. He would have relied strictly on meat he hunted for sustenance had he been alone. Thus, he was rather looking forward to finally cracking open the lightly charred pumpkin and tasting it, along with the coconut Seelie carried as she pranced alongside him – another food item that was foreign to him.

Seelie bounced beside him, their shoulders rubbing together as she lost her grip on the coconut and immediately dashed after it. He snorted lightly in amusement and continued to plod along after her even as she briefly slipped out of sight. The Gampr had never regarded the inky sheepdog as a damsel-in-distress and while he was terribly protective of her, he was also aware that she was capable of handling herself – she had survived without him for some time before they met, after all.

Still, as he trotted down the incline with the pumpkin stem still carefully gripped in his teeth, the sight of another wolf in close proximity to her made his hackles rise ever so slightly. The scene that played out before him was not at all what he expected – the stiff legged posture and tight draw of lips was uncharacteristic of his Seelie. Carefully he placed the pumpkin on the ground in front of him, golden eyes locked on the two females. He was the odd man out, the only one who didn’t know the story. There was clearly history here, they knew each other, something had happened to make the shewolf offer up apologies and for Seelie to act in such a heated, intense, non-Seelie like manner.

He hesitates for a moment, quietly observing, hackles still flared up between his shoulder-blades, before taking a slow step forward towards the pair. The rumble of a growl that cannot escape the inky sheepdog’s throat manifests itself in his voice as he approaches. “Seelie?” This is not necessarily his business, no matter how much he feels Seelie is his, and if she doesn’t wish him to interfere he won’t.