Wheeling Gull Isle goodbye blue sky

The sheepdog, for all her hardships, had retained an air of naïveté. Her initial reactions were not easily stifled, and when Maegi began to speak, a kaleidoscopic array of emotion flashed across her face. Worry and sorrow were paramount among them, but her eyes were warm and loving, and when she possessed the wherewithal to control her expression, she offered only a bittersweet sort of acceptance. “Maegi, no wary — weary — worry,” she blundered. She began to preen gently at the girl’s snowy nape. It was too difficult for her to really formulate the words, but she did understand the call of home. Any of the stormborn seawolves would.

“Moorhen, `Io — F…Fenin…feen,” she butchered the ghost girl’s name for the raven with an apologetic cant of her hindquarters and tailward flick of her tufted ears, “me,” she breathed, butting the bridge of her muzzle against the Daggertooth’s shoulder companionably. Her seablue gaze was soft and steady, her meaning eloquent: we will go with you. There was an air of grim determination in her “tone” — but as her silky susurrus was by nature not an emotive thing, it had to be evinced through her body language and the expression on her gentle face.