Wheeling Gull Isle on the line between gaia and poseidon

Still no sign of @Thresher, and Coelacanth is starting to lose hope. Not even gaining little Lucas (who really isn’t so little) can counteract the gigantic minus in her near-constant headcount. A few of the smaller trees have fallen, uprooted by the heavy stormwinds that batter against the island’s flanks. The tempest, she believes, is inching inexorably toward its final, terrible crescendo. She worries that if her firstborn daughter is not found soon, the sea and the sky will swallow her up entirely — so when she sees a pair of tall, umber-edged ears in the distance, far away from the remainder of the pack, she feels something akin to dread instead of joy. She flows across the sand with benevolent urgency — there are no tufts on those ears, but whoever owns them ought to stay far away from the hungry sea for the next while. She pauses after she crests a dune and enters the stranger’s line of sight, her tail whisking in a friendly manner as she lowers her body to the sand.

Amidst the fervent lapping of low tide, “Peace be,” Seelie whispers to the finespun girl, hoping that she will not use those long, gangly legs and oversized paws to run back across the sandbar. The former Aralez has so many questions — how are you? and who are you? and how can I make you happy? — but she stows them all, her Neptune eyes fixed with lively curiosity on the delicate features and the tracery of bone beneath a too-thin layer of flesh and fur. “Hunger?” she asks, getting the word right on the first try for once. She intercepts what usually ends up being one of the first questions asked when people arrive on the island: “Here is Undersea, this island, jewel under sky’s light and sea’s song,” but doesn’t ask questions or make demands herself. It’s more Coelacanth’s fashion to ask what is needed of her.