Wheeling Gull Isle I pray for the wicked on the weekend

Skipping Droman because he is on PPC.

Another contented sigh slipped from the Aralez’s smiling lips as the boy’s sister arrived upon the scene to watch the rising sun as well; the play of color over their erythristic fur gilded each separate guard hair in gold, and in this glimmering of beauty she saw their mother. Seelie was so happy to have Hemlock and Faeryn home, and she inched closer to the blue she-wolf on her belly, sprawling out beside her and gazing fondly up at the Akhlut. Reed was still too unfamiliar with Coelacanth to tolerate too much contact, physical or otherwise, and so the sheepdog kept her distance but did her best to “flirt” in her own way. Rooting through the sand, she uncovered a weathered shard of pale green sea glass and nosed it toward the girl, making no demands of thanks.

In her typically halting manner, “Faeryn,” she whispered, “greet-gift, Cons’antine, soon?” Stockholm would have been Seelie’s first choice for such an excursion, but she wanted him to stay here, on the island. She believed, perhaps erroneously, that Moorhen would be mollified by the Gampr’s presence even if the Groenendael had to travel to the mainland for business. Too, she knew that the fiery-eyed Mayfair lived in what had once been Arturo’s wood and did not wish to take Hemlock there lest the woman have her wounds reopened by the all too familiar terrain.