Wheeling Gull Isle The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions

A rainy morn dawned to find the soon-to-be Lady of the Isle patrolling, accompanied by the churn of sea against the shore and patter of droplets falling to earth. There was a nip to the showers but the summer's humidity kept her warm as she loped the perimeter of the island - laying the beginning traces of their borders as she passed. 

A dark silhouette on the beach's horizon drew her eye - squinting through the rain to assure herself it wasn't a trick of the light. A booming call of greeting echoed across the dunes as it left her throat, hailing her packmate as she trotted curiously closer. 

"Connor," she chirped happily as she came upon the older male, wagging tail slinging a portion of the wet sand plastered to her svelteness.