Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

Driftwood cringed a little at the harsh and sulky syllables that dripped totally unintelligibly from Moorhen's mouth. Oh shit. He'd really done it now, hadn't he—he'd crossed the line, grown too familiar, inhaled a little too deeply of her delicious scent and now—newly empowered to pass such judgments by her recent promotion, probably even specifically tasked to take out useless and/or vexing packmembers like himself should they get too uppity—now she was going to ensure he was punished for it. That was the proper translation of her foreign mutterings there, wasn't it? "You overstep, you scurrilous slimy dog! Now I kill you!" Driftwood had never translated anything before but was pretty sure he had the gist of it. And now he could only cower there and wait for the lightning bolt to strike him down... for if he ran he would doubtless only bring worse upon himself. This was quarry he'd never pursued, and he didn't know quite what would await him if he caught it in the end—he only knew that somewhere deep down he suddenly wanted to catch it more than anything.

But yes, yes, he was quite convinced that these words proved she did hate him... right up until her expression changed in the next few breaths, her ears performing the most exquisitely dramatic acrobatics they could as they drew themselves up at attention once more. From deep and gravelly and menacing (to Driftwood's own humiliatedly flattened ears), her syllables suddenly did a complete about-face, climbing the scales and becoming almost puppyishly pitched and inept. It rather ruined her whole aura of menace from a moment before. She squeaked—for goodness sake, she sounded half-mouse! Driftwood's own ears became unglued, and he chanced another hopeful glance in her direction. (And another appreciative little sniff—he couldn't quite help himself.) Never before had he heard such a note in Moorhen's voice—and it emboldened him enough to let him creep forward a small pace and a half, and start his tail up with a small, hopeful waggle of a wave. How much taller he was than her was only emphasized by his sidling closer, but he still kept himself crouched deliberately lower, which managed to put them on more nearly-equal footing as he gave Moorhen another and a longer sidelong glance. That's... that's what I said. Yeah... He swallowed hard, and could taste salmon juice in the back of his throat as he did so, which was somewhat unmanning—he hadn't exactly distinguished himself with his graceful taking up of her gift, now had he, no matter how mightily he might've tried. But contrary to his worst inner fears she wasn't trying to murder him for his own ineptness now from what he could tell, and—well, that might be enough. Or more than enough; more than he had looked for, at any rate. Driftwood caught himself huffing another taste of her wonderful aura and cleared his throat in embarassment before slowly continuing.

There was still some part of him that was apprehensively ready for her to turn on him at any moment, to snap back to her usual growling self in the sudden flash of a tooth. But there was another small but growing spark in him that was actually daring to hope... to hope what? He wasn't even quite sure. The scent of her was making him quite giddy as another fitful gust served it up to him on a platter once more. But he still wasn't quite sure what to do with it, and was feeling his way through the darkness one inching step at a time. M-m-mmmmaybe they were afraid to, he offered softly, in response to her bewildered peeping observation that no one else had ever told her she was stunning before. Or, erm, "staunning." Her harsh accent had seemed part of her intimidating spiky shell of armor previously, to Driftwood, but now it struck him as, well...kinda cute, at least when she used that tone and inflection with it. His tail wagged faster in appreciation as he ventured another stealthy step in her direction. At least he hoped it was stealthy... he found himself unexpectedly more invested in this than in any hunt he'd ever chased in before. Driftwood swallowed harder as his eyes inadvertently dropped to the sand for a moment. He was afraid to admit how high those stakes were building within, even to himself; it made his movements even less sure and any action all the more daunting. He abruptly wasn't even sure how things had managed to get this far; he snuck a quick flash of a peek back at the trail of wet pawprints in the snow-flocked sands behind him and felt intimidated by even those few steps he'd somehow convinced himself to take closer to this girl. Maybe if he was smart he really ought to back off now... but he didn't want to. He really didn't want to.

Maybe they didn't think you'd believe them? he half-breathed, which seemed perfectly understandable to him. He could hardly believe he himself was saying these things. Things he'd never even dared to think let alone give voice to. What the hell was she turning him into, here? And even more bafflingly, why did he want to let her lead him away from himself like this? This was crazy. Absolutely crazy. ...But not entirely in a bad way, he had to admit. There seemed to be some definite benefits, he thought as he breathed in her hypnotic scent once more, and dared to meet her stunning eyes. When not squinted in suspicion or anger their color caught the light in a most interesting way, he couldn't help but note. I don't remember ever seeing eyes like yours before. Anywhere. They're stunning. You're stunning. And you smell great. Er, whoops. He wasn't sure that last, especially, was actually what any girl wanted to hear. He rushed to cover it up, as artlessly as usual: I-I can see why Seelie made you a leader, you know, even if you are small. Small but not, I mean. I mean you don't seem small. Even though you are. Driftwood flailed for another moment in the verbal mire he was digging for himself; no sooner did he escape one than did he lurch inevitably toward another.