Wheeling Gull Isle shaolin monk motherfunk

"Maegi," she responded succinctly, not bothering to tack on her surname, as she once had done. Pawsteps distracted her, and she turned to see Stockholm draw up beside her. His presence was a solid comfort; she had began to see the Overseer as a surrogate father, of sorts. She flashed him the barest of smiles, then turned back to the woman, who was speaking again.

What's this place called? Any other wolf on the island might have answered her, but Maegi, having spent the first moons of her life in a forest brewing with conflict, was hesitant. Enemies were not a concept buried in fairy tales--they were real and alive, spilling the blood of the ones you loved. To give away your secrets was to open your door to tragedy, and that she would not do for the island. Coelacanth, the babes, Rokig and Reed, Stockholm, Driftwood, Droman, Venninne, Moorhen. . . She would not betray them.

"Why do you want to know?" Maegi asked, her voice slightly prickly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. This Wilson seemed innocuous enough, and if Stockholm wanted to give her the name, she wouldn't stop him. But she would not have any more blood on her paws.