Wheeling Gull Isle picks himself up and keeps climbing for the prize again

Yes...yes, that's the way! Driftwood's tail wagged in furious glee. He wanted to jump for joy, rather literally, at what might seem like insignificant baby steps for anyone else but which were obviously huge mountain-cresting strides forward for someone who had been so weak and traumatized as Mou. Driftwood stopped himself before his own weight had shifted more than the tiniest bit, however; much as he might want to dance about like a fool to express the joy bubbling up within him, Mou here needed him to be stolid and strong, a self-contained and sturdy rock upon which his shaky-legged packmate could steady himself no matter how unevenly the waves might tug at him. So Driftwood's tail danced around extra-wildly, to make up for the expressiveness the rest of his body must wall within himself, for now.

But, Don't drink it, Driftwood did admonish Mou, watching the other's muzzle dip experimentally. Okay, it might seem stupid and obvious, but one never knew...better safe than sorry, right? And Driftwood wasn't certain to exactly how puplike a state Mou might have regressed; somewhere in his mind he subconsciously figured that since the scarred male had spent so much time and effort striving to relearn how to walk, it stood to reason that most everything else might have to be relearned as well. And that was Driftwood's job right now, as he saw it: to do his part in helping his packmate relearn everything he'd need to be as well-rounded and productive and happy an inhabitant of their island as possible. Though Driftwood was also eager to see Mou rediscover the wonder and joy of simply being in and with the sea, too: how could anyone possibly fail to delight in the pleasant beauty, the supportive bouyancy, the fascinating clarity and splashy fun of it all...? These were unconscious assumptions on Driftwood's part, and so although he made certain to keep the bulk of his body pressed supportively up and under Mou as much as possible, he also kept moving forward with as wide and eager steps as he possibly could, helping to walk Mou out toward increasingly deeper waters even as he himself enjoyed the sensations the gradually cooler and deeper waves had to offer. Quite soon if he had anything to say about it they'd be where they could swim about at least a little, which (to Driftwood at least) was obviously the whole point of living at the seaside after all, wasn't it?! Right foot, then left; here we go! Isn't the sea beautiful today—just about the perfect temperature with that summer sun beating down on our coats like this! Mou wasn't very talkative, after all, so Driftwood just kept talking more, practically filling in both sides of the conversation all by himself. He unconsciously assumed this too would be helpful and reassuring to poor near-mute Mou. Friendly voice, friendly packmate, friendly waters...Mou had nothing whatsoever to fear or lose in blindly and eagerly following his lead, right? Sure. ...Lacking much of a past of his own, in his mind, Driftwood couldn't even begin to fathom how terrible it could possibly be to have such memories piling up in one's head in an unexpected and sudden emotional deluge and weighing one down.