Hushed Willows black in the magic, beauty in the tragic

Backdated to April 16, 2018.

Coelacanth is in the first phase of her heat and is NOT considered fertile. “During proestrus, the start of the estrous cycle, the bitch attracts male dogs, but is still not receptive to breeding.” This phase will last through April 20, 2018.

TRAVEL LOG
April 13, 2018: Sea Lion Shores
April 14, 2018: Horizon Ridge
April 15, 2018: Raven’s Watch

Unfortunately for the messengers who had just crossed the drawbridge to her island citadel, the atramentous Groenendael was off island and well on her way to beating them home. A strange, feverish restlessness had weaseled its way into her bloodstream — and at first, she’d thought it was just a case of itchy paws, kind of a Corten tradition; but over time she’d come to fear that it was premonition instead. What if something had happened to Catori or Grayday? What if the last time she’d danced with Aditya was the last time she’d ever dance with him? She had struck out for the mainland within an hour of her altercation with the Earthstalker, but she’d planned to return home after a quick jaunt to blow off steam and sort out her feelings. It was dread that kept her from turning back and crossing the sandbar even now — dread and guilt and a dirty sort of self-consciousness. She did not want to see Komodo again — not until she was steadier on her paws.

She’d spent her first night alone beside an uneven clamor of mountain stone and salt-crusted, porous rock, in a sprawling grove of towering trees. Then she’d swept inland, clinging to the mountains’ skirts, being careful to avoid the prickly Grimnismal wolves Catori had warned her about. Fortunately, her caution in skirting the borders had prevented what might have become an uncomfortable interaction in her current state — being reunited with the ragged ghost she loved so dearly. Nathimmel, he’d called her, and she was vulnerable to the hollow ache within him and the dominion he held. The second night, she’d napped fitfully, blissfully streamside but accosted by the clacking rattle of ravens. She woke before the dawn, trotting doggedly east on aching legs.

It was noon by the time Coelacanth stopped again, fretting about the position of the sun and the odd sensation that time was running out. She sheltered beneath the boughs of a tree the likes of which she’d never seen before — “shh, shh,” its pale, winter-weary tendrils seemed to whisper, enveloping her wholly in its shadow. She twined herself around the serpentine trunk, gamine framework slipping slowly through the lianas like a haphazard course of weave poles, and melted into a bed of feathery leaflitter. She could still smell the sea here, but it was faint and fading. It was too early to stop — businesslike, she reasoned that there were still so many miles to conquer! — but she couldn’t deny the strain in her waiflike musculature, and she was no stranger to the dark.

Curling herself into a tight knot of aphotic silk, Seelie slept.