Wheeling Gull Isle angry smol

She should be concerned for him — she should! — but he looks so funny, streaming with water and spraying saline from his nose like some poorly put together whale. She figures it’s worth being a Bad Dog if it means savoring this moment, so she puffs up her chest and leaps out of the water ahead of him. She positions herself on the shore, crouching there like a catnip-addled Ramsey, a twitch or two giving away her intention to pounce the heck out of him. “Fear no shark,” she boasts saucily, slapping both forepaws in the shallows for emphasis. “We make two.” Sixgill and Thresher are both named for the denizens of the darkensea. A devilish light glints in the Groenendael’s eyes as she looks her Gampr over more slowly, the motion blur of her tail slowing to a slow, feline tick-tock. “Winter sun,” she breathes, moving toward him slowly, touching her nose to the corner of his mouth. She either means, “Winter soon,” or, “Winter come,” but she doesn’t realize her blunder and therefore doesn’t correct herself. In case he isn’t picking up what she’s putting down, she smooths her nose along his jawline, up his cheekbone, and whispers, “Make more shark?”