Wheeling Gull Isle not all girls are made of sugar and spice and all things nice

I put you on PPC so that you can reply at will, and I’ll update your rank once you do! ♥ I’m sorry for the wait.

Poor Moorhen. It wasn’t Cairn nature to be so blindly accepting, but the banded girl’s loyalty belonged to the poster child for ingenuousness bordering on idiocy. Coelacanth had grown accustomed to her lamb’s compliance, even if the choices she made proved problematic time and again, and thus Moorhen’s resignation was accepted, appreciated, but ultimately something the sheepdog expected to receive. This paragraph is really stupid, and I could’ve summed it up by saying the following: Seelie do what Seelie want, and has gotten really used to getting her way, for better or for worse. Poor Moorhen, for having to go along with it all the time. So, just pretend I said that, but, like…in a much more eloquent way. My brain is made of mush.

Anyway, “Fee,” was what the Aralez eked out, her dumb tongue tripping uneasily between her teeth. “Free.” It would take a few more attempts to get the girl’s name right, but her feathered tail fluttered eagerly nonetheless. “Only?” she entreated in a silky susurrus, wondering about Priixu’s littermates — or lack thereof. With markedly less eloquence, she extended the invitation that Kirynnae and Riptide had offered countless others: “Corten welcome ever.” Of course, any wolf who chose to deny the unofficial clan tenets — namely, listen with your heart, strike seaward, respect the earth and its inhabitants, and don’t be an unprovoked asshole — ran the risk of losing the right to the patronymic, but Seelie had never actually seen it happen.

At mention of Atlan, Seelie made a face, wrinkling her nose innocuously with an apologetically playful flurry of her inky plume. Axolotl was so serious! — and while she respected his beliefs, rituals and all, they were just stories and songs to her. She regarded Maegi and Komodo’s gods with the same awestruck reverence, but believed privately that religion certainly seemed to make things heavier than they needed to be. “Maera ŭmma?” she assumed, though she could see no evidence of the flame’s vivid russet flickering amongst Priixu’s creamed-coffee-coat.