Totoka River waltzing the waves, diving the deep

Though Durnehviir’s restraint wasn’t greeted with any overt demonstrations of gratitude, Coelacanth appreciated it on a subconscious level; for beneath her exuberant exterior lay a sizzling network of anxiety-riddled nerves that always seemed to teeter just on the edge of a fight or flight impulse. The russet female’s next statement sent an unsettling ripple through this network, and something in the little Groenendael drew taut. Her posture did not alter significantly — her paws still danced and her hips still shimmied, but there was an added layer of disquiet to her body language: she kept more tightly to Stockholm’s side, cerulean eyes growing wide and wary, and her pert pink tongue darted out to swipe anxiously across her black button nose.

The nearest forest to the south had belonged to Teaghlaigh once — but Arturo Fearghal was no more, buried under the guise of a wraith named Witchdoctor. The last time Seelie had passed through Ravensblood Forest everything had been abandoned — and now she feared, admittedly irrationally, that Blackfeather Woods had expanded its influence across the entirety of the inner continent and reached its corrupt fingers nearly all the way to the sea. They never should have returned to the mainland! Pack or no pack, they were safer on the island, far away from here.

Durnehviir.

She didn’t seem bloodthirsty and sadistic, but Coelacanth whuffled fretfully nonetheless, her nose twitching and quivering as she sought to draw in the paprika-furred beauty’s scent. No. No. The foul scent of decaying corpses and maladies unspoken was blessedly absent — Seelie would have known it anywhere. Still, she was curious about where Durnehviir lived and with whom, though there was no easy way to express this. Tipping her finely-sculpted head from one side to the other with tufted ears pricked forward upon her skull, she relaxed once more, and the wide set of her eyes crinkled once more at the corners in pleased relief. Everything would be all right.

The aphotic sheepdog cross twisted to look entreatingly at Stockholm, trusting him to make the introductions. She didn’t really speak to strangers herself anymore — the little bit she’d managed to master had since fallen away — and anyway, she liked the sound of his voice.