Wheeling Gull Isle take you to the grave i'll ghost

a slow blink is given, but unlike when a cat does it, coming from saint it is not a sign of affection. still, the witchling rebels. fights. thrashes against the web fate has weaved for them.

though in all fairness, caracal and everett were the only fathers they'd ever known.

and in all rights, heda was the only mother they truly knew. though dark flashes of memories, unreliable but coveted and tucked close to the heart by the witchling all the same, of the witch that had birthed them remain. fuzzy but their's.

they watch and recoil as a strip of something slick and leafy is brought close to their snout.

it smells of salt and saltwater and something earthy but not.

perplexed, they bat at it; to push it away from their face. not to play, though the action could be misinterpreted.