Wheeling Gull Isle kongeda

He immediately felt like an ass for startling her so badly. Caracal’s ears pinned sideways as she scrambled away from the shark, though before he could offer up the thousand apologies on the tip of his tongue, Heda began to laugh. He stared at her for a beat before he slowly began to smile too, just for the expression to wipe from his face when his wife was suddenly ill.

Caracal sprang to his feet, moving to stand close by without crowding her as Heda emptied the contents of her stomach on the sand. He grimaced sympathetically, noting the spots of green in the vomit. He would just have to fetch more later, supposing that wasn’t what had set her off in the first place.

Puking’s the worst, he opined rather uselessly as his wife moaned.

He thought about reassuring her that this symptom only tended to last a couple of weeks, yet held his tongue. That probably felt like an eternity while stuck in the throes of terrible queasiness. Instead, Caracal tried to think of some other way to soothe Heda’s mal de mer. But there wasn’t a whole lot he could do, save for treat the symptoms.

And pray, he suddenly realized out loud, his lips moving in a silent prayer as he broadcast, Hey, God? It’s me, Caracal. I was wondering if you could give Heda some relief, in a generally skyward direction. Please? And thank you.