Wheeling Gull Isle One of the foremost modern experts on tonal architecture

For @Dinah!

Ana had slipped away to the water's edge, seeking time away from her numerous siblings. As the darkling grew, so too did her affinity for the sea; her birthright, though she did not know it. Yet those sharp whispering words of divinity, of the places of spirits and dark magicks, had never truly left her. Some part of her still remembered. Some part of her would always be heir to the legacy of Blackwater's druids.

She climbed large rocks at the water's edge, clicking happily and giggling each time the sea rolled in to lick at the rocks and at her feet. For a time she was happy. Ana was a nimble child — but like any other, she soon turned careless. A misstep sent her sliding down the slick side of one jagged rock, scrabbling in vain to regain some kind of footing. Ana cried out as she fell into the water, forelegs welling with blood from several cuts.

Wailing, she shot from the water and cowered further up in the sand. She cradled her bloody forelegs to her chest. After a few moments, her crying quieted; she took notice of the blood, the scent of it, the stark red staining of the sand. Ana stretched her legs out slowly, wincing. She watched the blood trickle into the sand, stirring it lightly with one paw, studying the way the color changed as it dried.