Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

Driftwood nodded like a brainless puppet as Moorhen admitted that she, too, tried to bathe. There was probably something debonair he could have replied to this, something about how her cleanliness obviously left her coat as shining and beautiful as the moon on the sea or stars at night or something, but naturally the words didn't want to cooperatively come to heel for Driftwood, so he just kept nodding.

The movement tapered off, however, and in fact all motion stilled for a few instants as Moorhen floated closer to carefully pluck the strange thing from his paw after all. His offering had been accepted! He wanted to cheer, but held himself poised and still. You're welcome, he remembered to breathe in reply after a moment of staring hypnotized down at her dark ruff and sharp ears. Another surreptitious sniff, her scent giving him the shivers, and then: It's not nearly as nice as you though.

Driftwood strongly suspected there was such a thing as too much honesty, and immediately felt that he had stumbled right back into one of those times here and now. His tongue darted out to lick nervously at his nose, and then he tried to deflect with, Erm... do you know what it is, though? He squirmed a little like a naughty puppy before admitting, ...because I don't. Though, uh, I don't think it's edible. From the smell. He tried to focus on he thing's smell, at any rate, though it was incredibly difficult when it was so bland and dead and boring in comparison to the alluring aroma of the stunningly captivating creature who held it. He didn't want to eat Moorhen, mind you, however...though a small lick did sound strangely appealing. Driftwood swallowed hard, tasting salmon more faintly in the back of his throat again and reminding himself strenly to behave. Moorhen could and would still rip him a new one if he wasn't careful enough to toe the line of propriety... wherever that might fluctuatingly lie in this particular moment. The bounds of good taste and good manners seemed to him to be as wiggly and treacherous as a coiling snake beneath one's paws. But he didn't want to find out that line had been crossed by a swift and possibly fatal strike from Moorhen here. The teetering edge of danger he stood on here left him increasingly giddy, or perhaps that was just Moorhen's scent once again, distracting him...

I bet it'd be fun to play with though, he said rather vacuously. Although he wasn't really thinking of the mysterious alien object anymore at all, whoops. If he could entice Moorhen to play, however, that seemed both more appealing than simply sitting here endlessly trying and failing to talk good, and somewhat safer and more familiar ground where any lapses of his might be a little more easily forgiven when he ventured them.