Wheeling Gull Isle the protectorate of seelholm

The little Groenendael’s tail fluttered eagerly behind her, thumping a staccato rhythm between the labradorite wall and Moorhen’s sturdy forelimbs. Nodding in agreement at the banded girl’s assessment — it did seem warmer in here, somehow — she moved forward, carefully and gingerly, and peered through a circular archway of stone to espy a miniature waterfall. She outstretched her finely tapered muzzle and lapped at it, finding it to be sweet and refreshingly cold, but when she tried to follow the riverbed further up — first judging that there were no sheer drops by the trickling flow — the water simply seemed to come from the wall itself.

Coelacanth propped herself up against the rock wall, one delicate forepaw pressed against the bleeding stone and one tucked against the sloping curve of her breast, but she lost interest in favor of exploring further. Circling back to Moorhen, she nibbled affectionately at the curve of the girl’s hip and passed the round archway on her right, threading her way down a gentle incline. The sound of lapping water got nearer the further she seemed to go, and the ceiling just ahead was alight with what appeared to be tiny, glistening stars. All around was the sound of falling water, like a symphony of rain. A low boof misted from her lips as she tiptoed forward through the gloom.