Wheeling Gull Isle I wanna live a life from a new perspective

Neptune eyes darted toward the amicable swish of Faeryn’s tail, and Coelacanth started finally to relax. Not being able to remember where one came from sounded terribly sad to the little sheepdog — who recalled with obsessive clarity the farm at Nanaimo and the island that had first been claimed by her father’s grandfather — but the azure-eyed she-wolf seemed to be truly content. Bounding to her paws, the tiny Groenendael danced her happiness with a shimmy of her hips and a bounce in her step. Talking overly much was painful and tiring for Seelie, and she eagerly reverted to communicating in a nonverbal way; with a flick of her feathered tail, she trotted a few steps away and bowed playfully toward her agemate, forelimbs slapping excitedly against the sand.

Perhaps Faeran wanted to do some exploring! Coelacanth was eager to see what secrets the island would share with the stormborn wolves who remained; and exploring was one of her favorite pastimes. Perhaps she would even try talking more, if her throat permitted. The invitation was as explicit as she could make it: she sat on her haunches, waving one paw with a soft, whispered whine of entreaty. Backing up a few paces, she repeated the gesture — and if all of that was not clear enough, she leapt forward in the direction she proposed they go, then circled back to Faeryn and tumbled into a small, wriggling bow at her feet. Then, with a soft boof! she shimmied backwards.