Wheeling Gull Isle sorrowing, sighing, breathing, dying

“Is sad,” Coelacanth breathed quietly, shaking her head with grave solemnity. “Heart sick. Soul sick. Moorhen, come — help hold.” She lay upon the ground, Radcliffe’s paws tangled amongst the fur of her flank, and nodded at the empty space at his back. Moorhen would be familiar with the ouroboros position the Aralez favored — surrounding whatever poor creature from both sides with love and affection. Once the banded raven was in place, the Aralez began to check Radcliffe’s paw for broken bones — her touch was featherlight as she mouthed at the delicate framework of his wrist and toes, and she judged him whole, if not completely sound.

“Strong, good boy,” she praised him, bathing his face. She understood on some deep, instinctual level that this was Moorhen’s lamb and therefore was slightly less demonstrative than she might normally have been, allowing the newly titled Akhlut the right to drive her away if she wasn’t happy about Seelie’s closeness.