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

they struggle. the magma of words they wish to hiss, words that whisper to them in the throes of their dreams and words that the adults and older cubs speak. but are cut off. unable to escape.

they haven't tried to speak, though due to trauma of being shuffled around so young, sort of remembered in the depths of their subconscious ... or out of spite, the would be saint cannot be sure.

n-no play. it is frustration that allows the words to finally take flight from their throat. a softly melodic and girlish tone that lingers in the air between their adoptive father and them.

she supposes though, besides the company of their own siblings, she would rather caracal's than one of their godly step-siblings.

w-wanna find prewty rocks. it flutters unsure from their lips; tumbling over sounds and stumbling over whole words. it is embarrassing ... and yet, and yet — it is their's.