Totoka River the upper peninsula

Coelacanth scoured her memory, but “Rokig” remained a mystery to her. Its quicksilver syllables pleased her, especially the burred consonant that began it, but conjured no denotation or connotation. She surmised, therefore, that Rokig was a name, and cradled it gently with her tongue before offering it back to him for his inspection: “Rokig,” she breathed in a timorous whisper.

The atramentous sheepdog’s gamine musculature tensed imperceptibly as Rokig’s careful steps brushed away some of the distance she’d imposed, affording her a better glimpse of him; the sway of her sumi-e brush tail quickened in pace and her Neptune eyes crinkled shyly at the corners in a demure smile. Aside from the warm, milk tea hue on the backs of his ears — a sight she was privy to only because of the slightly oblique angle at which she stood — he was a grayscale wolf, short-boned and compact, with a twitching dark nose and matte argent eyes. Though he might not have thought so, in Coelacanth’s eyes he was a handsome specimen with a pleasant-sounding voice.

Words failed her in that moment, and she tilted her head rather helplessly, her hummingbird heart drumming wildly within her breast. A soft, fluting whine questioned tunelessly: “Are you lost?” and was gilded with the glimmer of her cerulean gaze, limpid with concern.