Wheeling Gull Isle on the line between gaia and poseidon

“Curri-tuck!” Seelie breathes delightedly, finding the collection of syllables enchanting. She punctuates the girl’s name with a spirited toss of her head and an abbreviated tattoo of her catlike forepaws. What a fun name it is, and how suitable! A blissful dog smile causes her slim jaws to part as her tongue pokes playfully between her canines. “Like Currituck, very, very,” she responds in kind, in her exuberance leaning in with outstretched muzzle. If the girl remains still, Coelacanth’s cold, wet nose will press a soft kunik to the girl’s cheek. “Storm,” she affirms, her Neptune eyes flicking toward the misted horizon. She can feel it all along her skin and taste it on her tongue, but she doesn’t have a way of putting the sensation into words.

“Currituck stay?” she asks plainly, her head tilting coquettishly as her Neptune eyes plead with the girl. She tries to soften her now-characteristic desperation to HERD ALL THE LAMBS by tacking on an out: “Storm,” she repeats in a hushed whisper. “Water danger, sometime. Currituck stay, for safe. No kennel-up. Free.”