Wheeling Gull Isle Man Machine Poem

It took a moment for Moorhen to notice the drunken sway to the little one's steps. When she did, she aimed a suspicious glance over her shoulder - only for the expression to fall away when she realized what the girl was up to. An ungraceful snort escaped her, and she began flicking her tail more forcefully with each step, hoping to further distract her young charge.

It didn't surprise her that this weather business was distressing to the Shadow's brood. Moorhen thought they were all a bit soft and tender. But anything was better than what she remembered of herself as a child, so she didn't try to undermine Coelacanth and Stockholm's parenting methods by tossing the kids off cliffs or bringing them large crabs to wrestle with.

Nor did she intend to let Treasure out of her sight once they got down into the labrynth. It could be easily navigated by someone with a good sense of direction, and Moorhen often marked her passage by rubbing against the walls if she was afraid she might get turned around - but there were many pockets of deep water (none knew where they might end) and areas with swifter currents that were dangerous to a small cub.

"Better?" she asked as the daylight began to fade behind them. The deeper they got into the narrow channels, the wetter the air became. Moorhen did not enjoy the sensation for long periods of time, but she could appreciate the contrast between the biting of the ash in her lungs and the feeling of breathing through a wet washcloth. This post is terrible, sorry.