Wheeling Gull Isle the protectorate of seelholm

The tiny sheepdog moved in a careful shuffle, keeping the bulk of her frail weight on solid ground while she tested the floor in front of her; she felt Moorhen’s trepidation as if it was her own, but in Seelie it alchemized into a bubbly concoction of excitement, curiosity, and anticipation. There was fear there, too, as there always was when Coelacanth was concerned — but the desire to see and know the origin of that eerie blue glow was more important. Still, she paused upon a shimmering expanse of stone to turn with meticulous care and very gently lean up to bathe Moorhen’s face in kisses. Her tail swept over her spine as she lifted her elegant head — in a more commandeering wolf, this might have translated to, “I am dominant,” but in Seelie it simply meant, “I am calm and I will protect you.” Her Neptune eyes were soft and warm, creased in a smile.

If Moorhen was too stressed to continue, Seelie would gladly cease and desist.