Wheeling Gull Isle let my imagination run away with you gladly

Coelacanth’s previous encounters with horses had mostly been good, but she knew better than to try to bend these wild creatures to her will. Their manes were shaggy and rough, and their tails dragged upon the ground; the oldest ones were bony and listless, with hooves so overgrown they curled up in the front like grotesque clogs. Although her initial inclination was to forbid her wolves from killing the horses at all costs, Seelie could not help but wonder if culling the oldest members of the herd before they reached such a sorry state was more merciful. It was something that troubled her deeply, but she set the worry aside to discuss with the Council. If the sheepdog ever did speak, Stockholm was her truest mouthpiece, so it was better done with him in attendance.

Setting aside her responsibilities, the ink-feathered Groenendael descended the knoll to flirt with a fiery chestnut mare. Her body language was loose and easy, showing quite plainly that she was playing, not hunting. Still, the filly did not take kindly to Coelacanth’s brazenness and threw up her head with a vivacious little whinny. They played a dangerous game, Seelie nipping at the horse’s heels and the mare bucking saucily in response — but when the inky wolfdog backed off, the horse seemed content to do the same. In truth, the Aralez did not think much of the intelligence of horses; she had seen the woman’s gelding balk at things as innocuous as hay bales, after all.

“Adi,” she breathed, returning to his side with an exultant whuff. Her sea sparkle eyes shimmered with mischief and joy. How could she make it clear to him that she would protect him? She nosed affectionately at the underside of his chin. Then, giving the herd a wide berth, she circled around to the tree in the center of the veldt. She propped herself up on he trunk with one dainty paw, the other tucked against the sloping swell of her breast, and sniffed at the new buds.