Wheeling Gull Isle wanderer, what are you searching for?

Coelacanth returned to the water’s edge on a fairly regular basis, so perhaps it was not surprising that she was the first to come across the salt-etched, sepia-painted wolf who lay like a wolf-shaped twist of driftwood in the damp sand.  Heedless of her own safety, she surged forward to meet him, afraid at first that the sea had stolen away his breath utterly — but closer inspection revealed the fluttering rise and fall of his sodden flanks.  She knew she ought to proceed with caution.  She’d been savaged for doing exactly what she set about doing now, but she couldn’t stop herself.  Centimeter by slow centimeter, she approached the wolf with nose aquiver and limbs atremble, her Neptune eyes limpid with mingled distress and curiosity.

Without speaking, she touched the tip of her nose to one leathery paw pad, wondering if he would wake — but he was so cold.  Instinct bade her to tuck her tiny body along his side, but innate shyness and a fear born of cruel treatment stayed her.  She whined softly, an airy sussurus so frail any self-respecting siren would laugh at the attempt, and nudged at his wrist with the bridge of her muzzle.  Please wake up!