Wheeling Gull Isle on the line between gaia and poseidon

“I am hunger,” the russet-furred girl affirms, and Seelie brightens visibly. The botched language makes no difference to the inkdark allmother; Currituck doesn’t need to speak at all to be understood. Neptune eyes adopt an eager glow as the little wolfdog’s feathered tail begins to wriggle and wave, and she nods emphatically. “Live here,” she repeats carefully in a hushed whisper, nodding toward the angry-looking horizon and the sinister churn of the sea. “Storm soon,” she informs the small girl, a flicker of worry crossing her gentle visage, and straightens to pad a few paces inland. She tips her finely sculpted head in invitation and inquiry, waiting for the younger female to catch up, and offers information for information: “Name, Coelacanth. Seelie. Enyu?” The last is adopted from Komodo’s drawling burr — “An’ you?”