Wheeling Gull Isle the protectorate of seelholm

Coelacanth tipped back her head until the tips of her tufted ears tangled in the feathery fur of her nape, transfixed by the twinkling canopy. Moorhen’s surge of excitement was infectious, and although Seelie was too awestruck to respond verbally, she offered a soft, wheedling whine and pressed her nose to the taller female’s neck. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, a shy dog smile, as she softly woofed and picked a path at random. It would take the seawolves some time to fully navigate the chambers of this labyrinth, but despite the tiny Groenendael’s instinctive fear of being caged or cornered, she didn’t mind getting lost within these walls. She hit a dead end, circled around, and descended into what appeared to be a sea cave of sorts. Now, at low tide, the water lapped gently at her feet — and wherever she stepped, swirls of iridescent blue arose.