Wheeling Gull Isle whispers sloth, through curls of smoke

*cracks my drama-loving little knuckles*

There were new faces, new children, and Dinah did not like it. 
Mama and Daddy raised her to be kind, to be gentle, to be a figure of light and godliness and womanhood. And those were things she was good at. She rarely squabbled, gave her brothers the softness of femininity in the form of a sister with a voice of reason, listened to what Mama and Daddy told her to do. She was a good kid, really! 
Which was all the more reason for the darklings to cause her dismay. 
Around the clock, Mama and Daddy had been busy with them. Their eyes grew puffy, their voices scratchy with sleep deprivation. Most of her adventures were made by herself, unless someone noticed her absence. 
Seldom was she with her brothers alone, Mama alone, Daddy alone. Now, there were four more whining, soft mouths begging for food. They took food from Mama! Food that was hers once! 
She felt as though she had been forgotten. Mama and Daddy didn't love her anymore, or else they would not be fussing over these— these... demons. These thieves!  
Didn't they have their own parents? 
So every day, Dinah waited for them to disappear. For their real Mama to come get them, who never did. 
And she was nice to them; she would play along if Mama left her "in charge" of one, she would not yell or growl or swat at them. But she did not like them, and as time went on where they existed within her now shattered family, her eyes grew all the more dull. Dinah became withdrawn, quiet; she would sit on the beach or beneath an old spruce, away from the wandering eyes of her family, and cry there. She would, decidedly, not cry in front of the darklings. 
And that is where she was now. Her siblings were occupied with the little thieves, and so she had taken her leave on the shoreline, curled up in a little ball with her forepaws covering her eyes as she wept. 
For the first time in Dinah's short life, she felt alone.