Wheeling Gull Isle musou il mare

Sixgill Volkodav-Corten was angry. And anger is a fairly new emotion to the five month old boy. He first felt the hot fire of it burning under his skin when his mother was brought back to the Labyrinth, injured and bloodied. It was soothed and tempered, to a degree, by the continuous reassurances of both his parents that everything was alright, that it was a mistake, that there should be forgiveness. But the fire was never truly extinguished, deep down the embers smoldered quietly until a swift wind of upheaval stirred them to the surface – Thresher’s disappearance.

And so Six had another first, his first true argument with his parents.

In the end, the boy had been expressly forbidden from leaving the island in search of his sister. Thus – the proverbial moody teenager – he sat quietly to the edge of the gathering, ears flattened to the side like airplane wings, shoulders hunched up, lips drawn in a tight line as he listens to his mother speak.

It all kind of goes in one ear and out the other, as things tend to do with pups his age. His parents have always been the leaders here, why does that have to change all of a sudden because some jerk came in and hurt Coelacanth? It doesn’t make any sort of sense to him, it only feeds his frustration at the world, at his inability to go find his sister, at all the things that are suddenly wrong – the perfect bubble of safety and happiness of puppyhood having been burst.

One of his airplane-ears twitches upright when his mother mentions a storm, and he glances in the direction of the sea, as if expecting to see some sort of obvious sign there that indicates such a thing. But he can discern nothing particularly out of the ordinary, and his ears flatten back down into sulking mode as he resumes watching the gathered seawolves as they either depart to search for Thresher (why do they get to go and not him?!) or offer moral support to Seelie and Stockholm.