Wheeling Gull Isle the last true mouthpiece

It was odd to mark the same pathways she'd once run and see the Island in a bloom. Spring had spring, and it was different here than the mainland. Hemlock parted from her children briefly to roam around. She almost felt like organizing something, starting a cache, just...anything but then she wasn't entirely sure. She still had the nagging fog from her previous night's sleep and the faintest smell of wild hemlock growing. She gave a low sigh and shook her coat out again; she'd even woken with her fur in haphazard swatches as if someone had worked her over. 

The day's sun was just beginning to peek and Hemlock sniffed around the edges where the sand gave way to actual sod and ground. She had to be sure that there wasn't any hemlock lurking around lest the children somehow get ahold of it.