Wheeling Gull Isle sorrowing, sighing, breathing, dying

Mix mentioned that this post is marked JOINING but is also ALL WELCOME. ♥ I would appreciate one more round of just these three before anybody else joins, though!

Tendrils of sunlight had finally broken through the heavy cloud cover that had been threatening the coast for weeks, but the seawolves couldn’t see it; they were huddled together in the deepest recesses of the Labyrinth, finding sanctuary in stone. Only when a joyous cry sundered the rainsong did Coelacanth emerge, moving through the twisting, turning corridors like a ghost. She didn’t issue any orders to wait or stay, so if the other seawolves wished to emerge and assess the damage that had been done to their home, they were free to do so. “Lamb,” she breathed when she was near enough to be heard, her seabright eyes falling warmly upon Moorhen. For a moment, the banded female was all Seelie could see and little Radcliffe went utterly unnoticed — she pressed her body against the wayfaring Agarwaen’s and fussed over her lovingly — and then she spotted the small, pale boy who huddled beneath her.

First things first: “Treasure home, safe,” she stated plainly, though it would likely be obvious to the boneweary raven. That was the good news. The bad? “Storm — and sea — ” she fumbled, “many loss.” It pained her to recite the names, but out of love and respect, she did: “Rehan. Blossom. Hemlock. Reed. Droman. F-Fern. Mur.” Her eyes were doleful as they regarded the loyal guardian, but there was a thread of steely strength there, too. This time, Coelacanth was determined that they focus on the living and the present, and rebuild. She did not deify the sea as some others might; it would to take the pack’s collective effort to move forward from this tragedy. A spasm of pain crossed her face, but she spoke her final word on the matter: “Protect pack.”

The newly reinstated Aralez rarely spoke to the raven so formally, but, “Moorhen Cairn,” she breathed hesitantly, floating an idea that she hadn’t yet discussed with Komodo or Stockholm. Undersea had been fashioned around the idea of a Council — but since its founding, the four positions had never been filled at the same time. Faeryn’s return had been good for the pack, but the Groenendael and the Gampr were loathe to pressure her with the responsibilities of leadership directly upon her return. Komodo had been a stalwart supporter of the pack since its inception, but in the wake of `Io’s mysterious absence, she was reluctant to let the yoke of power ride so heavy on his shoulders (especially with the breeding season right around the bend).

“Lead Undersea, with me? With Stockholm? Agarwaen no more, Akhlut be?” she asked haltingly, her tone entreating as she tenderly sought the fierce mahogany gaze. “Akhlut,” she whispered in a silky susurrus as though enchanted, reciting the words as clearly as she could, “whale become wolf — great hunter. Like you, my lamb.”

She had not forgotten the boy’s comfort, but this impetuousness of hers would not be turned away or quieted. Her soft blue eyes turned away from Moorhen’s long enough to apologetically look upon the young boy who clung like a burr to Shadow’s girl. “Good boy,” she praised him softly, conducting a clumsy two-way interview as she spoke then to him: “Hurt? Hunger?” He looked to be a little bit of both.