Wheeling Gull Isle maybe when the coast is clear

Coelacanth didn’t correct her lamb for her insubordinate posture or accusatory speech; she knew in her bones that what she had done was wrong, not only as a mate and a guardian but as one of the pack’s leaders. If she and Moorhen had been alone she would have groveled before the girl and begged forgiveness, but before Lavender and Grayday she felt she need to keep her composure and maintain control. “I am sorry. Home now. Stockholm home soon,” she promised, an exhausted whine trembling from her lips. She turned her muzzle toward the Morningsiders with as reassuring a smile as she could manage for Lavender. “Moorhen, friends,” she pressed gently, Neptune eyes fixed intently on the mahogany-eyed girl. “Welcome friends — Grrrayday, La — Laf — Lavender.” She made to cross the distance between them, respectful of Moorhen’s space and willing to back off immediately if the girl seemed begrudging, though if her lamb allowed it the sheepdog would nibble gently at her withers. “Sing @Driftwood.” She thought perhaps the kindhearted wolf would be a great asset in helping the newcomers settle in.