Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

Driftwood by contrast to the lady didn't mind running circles around Moorhen one bit. Quite literally, as his lolloping legs kept churning whilst his teeth hanging onto the Thing ended up dragging him around and around as Moorhen spun tauntingly about. It was far and away preferable to standing around trying to make small talk though, that was for sure. Even though the strange stretchy pull of the Thing kind of made his teeth tingle and jaw ache; just what the hell kind of plant from outer space was this thing comprised of, seriously. He was growing increasingly tempted to unhook his jaws, here, but with Moorhen's beckoning presence dug in on its other end Driftwood certainly wasn't going to let go of it quite that easily. He loudly mock-growled right back at the female and, setting his teeth deeper into the bizarre material, gave his head a mighty shake to and fro, once and then again, as he hoped that the see-through honeycombed not-a-plant Thing would yank the wolf of his interest in a little closer to him in the process.

That quick shake of the head did even weirder things as it pitched and yawed against his teeth, though, and the sensation was disturbing enough that he couldn't help but yank open his mouth and work his lower jaw for a minute. Wazzat thing made of? he wondered aloud a little light-headedly as his head snapped back a short ways in a reaction to the sudden release of tension. Driftwood doubted it was just whiplash or the twisty turning circles they'd been tracing in the sand that were making his head spin, though, this close to and as he acquired such great gulping breaths of Moorhen-flavored air. Much of her scent signature was a familiar one from his wandering patrols of the island, but that strange, hypnotic new undercurrent to it was unlike anything he'd ever tasted before, and something that Drift couldn't quite get enough of on this strange new day. ...In the meantime, in Driftwood's estimate he'd been pretty wrong about just how much fun the Thing would be, but the thought hardly mattered to him, distracted as he was. In fact even the weird sideways skewing pull number it had done on his teeth wasn't too big of a deterrent, because in pretty short order he'd lunged forward and was grabbing forth again. This time though he wasn't aiming too intently for the Thing itself, what with Moorhen having been gyrating about so trickily, and the stuff of its bones not being all that appealing a sight or smell or feel... No, mesmerizing brown spinning top Moorhen's tail, or whatever other fluffy appendage might present itself would do just fine, really. I think it might be trying to bite you, look out! he warned Moorhen before he did so, though, only to amend this a moment later with a wide, goofy grin as he seized blindly upon whatever his grabbing jaws could freshly catch himself this time: Oh wait, no, 'at's me.

The waggy, flat-eared expression of silliness might have held a hint of apology, even, if it hadn't been such a broad smirk plastered upon his lips. He lifted one broad tawny-white paw to poke at her, and maybe draw her in a little closer yet. ...If he'd been thinking about it before he acted Driftwood might have spun himself into more of a panic over what Moorhen's reaction might be, over how much of his nonsense she might put up with before she snapped and turned on him for his brash forwardness and lack of respect, for her freshly-raised rank if nothing else— but the whole point of playing was surely to not have to think, to go forgivingly and with whole-hearted eagerness wherever the moment might be trying to lead... and that was what Driftwood was unconsciously doing now: very much not thinking before he acted. His eyes peeked slyly up at Moorhen from under blonde lashes, gleaming mischievously as his hormones clamored at him to seize the moment and "helpfully" drowned out the small, rational voice of worry in the back of his mind.