Wheeling Gull Isle i’m not superstitious, but i’m a little stitious

The atramentous sheepdog watched Maegi shrewdly, her seasparkle eyes a curious mixture of piercing intensity and soft compassion. She watched her words sink in, one by one, like black pebbles drifting to the bottom of a pale grey pool. Not even Stockholm knew the extent of the abuse she’d suffered there, and she wasn’t about to tell the already frightened girl in detail. She simply murmured, “Blackfeather came to Teaghlaigh — came for blood. Teaghlaigh call me, Blackfeather take me.” One tufted ear fanned out and to the side in a display of lingering uneasiness. “Hurt me many,” she whispered, her silky susurrus even more subdued than usual. She was ashamed of these memories; absurdly, she felt dirty and ruined, and partially to blame.

“Girl help me free,” she concluded when she could speak again. “Green eye,” she breathed, tipping her muzzle to the right, and “blue eye,” tipping her muzzle to the left. “Pretty, fur like starshine.” She exchanged a fond glance with `Io at the nickname she herself had been given.

Shaking away the thoughts lest Abraxas and Atshen meet her once more in her dreams, “Maegi, I am happy — if you ever stay,” she breathed honestly, “but when you want, safe bring Blackfeather.” She had sworn never to go back there, but for this girl, here Guppy, she would break that vow. As long as Maegi was safe, healthy, and happy, Coelacanth would be satisfied.