Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

Dirftwood was fortunate that there was a sturdy wolf-shaped shield named Moorhen that stood between him and the ocean, and took the brunt of the fall. That really hadn't been quite what he intended, and after his second futile tailsnatch his expression grew more troubled as he realized that he'd kinda shoved Moorhen right into the freezing cold water that his own leg hadn't much enjoyed—oops. He didn't have much time to try and apologize or do anything about it, though, because Moorhen was already up and at 'em and about to take her revenge: taking the cold dousing much more in stride than had Drift, she rose up and lifted her own dripping forelegs to collide with his ribs. Driftwood let out a loud OOF but didn't much resist as Moorhen toppled him in turn. Fair was fair after all, right? And he didn't want her to think he was going to insist on having the upper hand the whole time, here.

At least she missed the salmon...I think, thought Driftwood as he gazed up at her with his own back flopped into the cold wet sand, a silly and slightly apologetic grin on his face as he wagged his tail like a misbehaving pup. Moorhen was keeping the game going, so Driftwood relievedly figured that his latest lapse had been forgiven...and was even a little smug: turning this whole encounter into playtime rather than talktime had been just about the best idea ever. He lazily batted a wet and sandy paw toward her front, not really minding whether or not it connected. He'd never seen this side of Moorhen before, and he definitely liked it; the last thing he wanted to do was to chance her stopping all this roughhousing in its tracks.

Which was why when he unthinkingly reached his forelegs up to grab Moorhen's head and yank it closer, offering up a big slurping lick toward her face, he froze, eyes wide. He stared at her, aghast at his own actions and trying to figure out what exactly it was that was driving him to act in such ways he never had before, up until the next wave came lapping up and stroked its cold fingers down the length of his spine. Driftwood shuddered, and then feebly offered up, Uh, ah... let me try to get some of that wet sand off of you...? Yeah, like she was going to buy that as his innocent intentions behind all this.

Gazing up at her with his belly exposed, Driftwood curled his tail in between his legs, feeling suddenly very vulnerable and fearful of what Moorhen might do... like leave. Shit, he'd blown it now, hadn't he? Even if he really wasn't quite sure what all "it" might encompass still, here. Her changed scent felt like it had dug into his brain like a screwworm larva and was rummaging about in there making any thinking straight nigh-impossible; Driftwood would really need a few minutes alone to sort some of this out, at some point. But he also didn't feel like that was really what he was wanting to happen, here...he just didn't know quite what he did want out of this, yet.