Wheeling Gull Isle I pray for the wicked on the weekend

Coelacanth “barked” a greeting of her own to the Akhlut, her hips hiking upward like a kitten with “elevator butt” as her inky tail whisked eagerly. She patted the sand with her rounded forepaws in a playful manner, but ultimately succumbed to laziness, stretching out on her stomach near the other seawolves. She accepted Droman’s enthusiastic hello with shy exuberance, a flurry of airy kisses offered in warm rejoinder, and nodded eagerly to accept his invitation. Sweet guppy, she thought, her forequarters sternal but her hindquarters splaying comfortably out to the right; the curve of her body formed a slight lowercase “j” without a tittle, and she preened at a snarl of feathery fur on her flank, for the first time wondering what it might be like to have little lambs of her own. A contented sigh spilled from her as she watched the play of citrine over the horizon.