Wheeling Gull Isle mitexi

The sheepdog watched eagerly as the seawolves began to arrive, her eyes lingering with particular fondness on Hemlock’s children. She kicked and rolled into a standing position, ignoring a cramp that pulled low in her abdomen, and moved first to Reed. If the small, red girl allowed it, she would make to smooth her muzzle along Reed’s until they were cheek to cheek, then curve her nose about the girl’s nape in a warm embrace. Then she went to Droman, a smile playing about her muzzle, and outstretched her nose to repeat the gesture — slotting her cheek and then her shoulder against his as she briefly laid her chin atop his withers.

“Welcome, Daggertooths,” she breathed in the wake of her mate’s explanation of the event, addressing the crowd in the silence that followed Stockholm’s speech. “My father’s father, Riptide, lived seaside ever,” she whispered haltingly, “until mate — met — my grandmother, Kirynnae. Kirynnae’s birth pack gave Riptide new life — new way,” she smiled shyly, “and, so…we wish for Reed and Droman, too.” Her words were clumsy and frail, but her love for them was unmistakable. “Fill stomach, fill eyes,” she murmured, gesturing to the feast and the lantern-dappled water. “Joyful be, and wander wide. Home here, ever. Always.”

The tiny Groenendael smoothed her tongue across Fern’s head, and offered funny little Mur a more dignified caress, pressing her nose against his cheek but leaving his brassy blond fur — a trait of which he was very proud! — untouched. “Soon Maegi, too,” she breathed, “and one day, Yakone, Fern, and Mur. Reed and Droman’s paws walk first, guide all.” She did not speak of the babies that grew within her and kicked even now — this celebration was for the living and the landside. She lumbered to each of the seawolves, exchanging scents with them in some smallway, and then threw back her head to “howl” — a hollow sigh that would hopefully be filled with song.