Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

It was not often that Moorhen went out of the way to speak to others. She enjoyed the company of the Volkodav-Cortens, but even her desire to spend time with them could be spotty at times. She was still a quiet and watchful fixture at the edge of their lives, but not the wolf that others went to when they needed affection or understanding.

So it was odd that she was sniffing out @Driftwood's usual haunts, and even odder that she carried a dying salmon that she did not intend to keep for herself. It flopped weakly in her iron jaws, trying to escape even in the throes of death. Moorhen ignored it and walked doggedly onward.

Driftwood's eyes were roving across the sandy beach as was usual with him, paying more attention to the ground below than to the rest of his surroundings. A mediumweight dusting of fresh and falling snow was threatening to conceal his precious seashells from him more thoroughly than usual, but this Seawolf was bound and determined to find them anyway. He moved forward to prod cautiously at a promisingly sharp-looking edge among the monotonous gentle covering of white, furrowing his brow and squinting as he sniffed more closely at it: the protruding edge of a larger shell, perhaps? He could only hope—but before he'd quite made certain of his find a much darker silhouette detached itself from the treeline and caught the corner of his eye.

Driftwood looked up in startlement as Moorhen steadily moved toward him. He stared at her in surprise for a moment, and then cast a quick, furtive look to either side of him, wondering if perhaps it was someone else nearby she might be seeking—which seemed pretty improbable; the snow certainly wasn't deep enough to be hiding any of his packmates nearby, not even the smallest of the puppies, but Driftwood also couldn't remember Moorhen's having sought him out ever before for anything. But, then again...maybe that was just his own faulty brain talking. His eyes widened a few fractions more as the sight and scent of the fish she carried hit him, as it twitched and wafted its scent toward him against the light breeze, while Moorhen's steps hauled it closer.

A salmon?! he blurted unthinkingly. Did the big storm wash some of those ashore up into the trees there somehow, or—? Wait, no, that was kind of a dumb question, wasn't it. He couldn't remember exactly how long it had been since The Storm but he was pretty sure any fish it had beached would have long since stopped twitching. Right? Right. ...Surely. Er, that is—where did you find that?! I didn't know you were such a talented fisher! He hoped his second guess would prove a little more realistic, here; some piece of his brain was still stuck on the astounding notion that maybe the storm could have made fish findable on land. (Why hadn't he thought of that— but then again, who looked for fish in among trees anyhow?! The nonsensical patter of his own mind was rather distracting.) But if that wasn't the case, then it was a lot more likely Moorhen had fished the thing up herself just recently...he hoped, anyway. Otherwise he'd better prepare for another quick surgical removal of yet another firmly-wedged foot from his mouth.

When her eyes alighted on the male she sought, Moorhen made a beeline toward him, her steps veering slightly as another round of violent flopping caught her off-guard. But she reached Driftwood safely and spat the suffocating fish unceremoniously at his paws. He was saying something, and she cupped her ears attentively toward him but still missed most of the words. For you, she said in her rough, accented voice. I caught it. In ocean. After all, something she found washed up in the sand wouldn't have been a proper gift, would it?

Now, however, she fell silent and uncertain, staring at the male with an unblinking mahogany gaze. Although it lacked the usual air of suspicion and foul-temperedness, it was likely no less unpleasant to be pinned down by than her usual stare. Alas, the Cairn woman did not know how to make her aims clear. The subject seemed awkward to broach, and she was uncertain of her own desires, and looking at Driftwood now, her plans to find him and flirt with him seemed both childish and poorly thought-out.

It was funny how quickly embarrassment could turn into anger.

Eat fish, she commanded.

Driftwood's attentively pricked ears caught all of her words, but he still wasn't sure he was quite hearing them right. You caught it for me?! he said, baffled, and then winced internally. He really did wish he was better about thinking how these things might sound before he uttered them. He glanced behind him at the slightly restless gray waters, hoping this might prove a small distraction from his own ineptness. In the ocean. Oh! Well congratulations. This time there was a bit of a physical wince visible to accompany this. I mean, uh—thank you? Thank you. Yes. I appreciate it. Driftwood's boggled expression could not have been labeled anything close to "thankful" by even the most generous observer however as he stared down at the glassy-eyed twitching fish. The salmon's eyeballs made him a little uncomfortable but it was still better than meeting Moorhen's own intense stare, at least. Besides which the fish didn't seem particularly aware of him as its twitching grew more feeble and its gasping breaths stuttered slowly to a halt; at least it wasn't stnding here in the snow staring at and judging him. Moorhen seemed a bit nicer than usual here it was true but somehow that was almost more unnerving to Driftwood. He really didn't know how to handle this change, and felt as out of his element here as the dying almon itself. A moment's quick pang of sympathy passed from his eyes down to the fish at this.

Eat fish, Moorhen commanded however, and Driftwood scrambled to obey. Oh, uh, yes! Yes'm, miss Akhlut! Eat fish. Okay. Driftwood lowered his jaws to the salmon in obedient haste, thinking too that filling his jaws might be a good idea anyhow as it would prevent his tongue from finding any more graceless words to spout. As he clamped down on the fish however he managed to embarrass himself a little more even so: it gave one final abortive spasm as it felt the jaws of death descend, and Driftwood squeaked in surprise and half-dropped the thing. He folded his ears back in humiliation and hastened to bite down more firmly on the thing, yanking off bigger and more awkward gulps than he was usually more wont to do in his haste to do Moorhen's bidding, despite not really being hungry. She outranked him, after all; it wouldn't do at all to have her thinking he was trying to dodge orders here. Or that he was some kind of fish-fearing wuss. She was still staring at him over there, though, wasn't she...?! Driftwood nearly choked himself as he tried to bolt down the next bite or three all at once and simultaneously flick a quick furtive look in his superior's direction to try and make sure he wasn't just imagining things, here. Fank oo, he mumbled again, more indistinctly as his mouth manhandled his meal. ...Drift was always awkward but oh man, he didn't think he'd ever made quite this much of a dolt of himself before. He was forced to pause and cough for a moment to get that overlarge scaly bite down, but almost before he'd managed to get himself breathing normally again was already reaching to take another mouthful. It was still better than his failing at making conversation, at least, surely.

It didn't feel quite right to order him to consume his own gift - oughtn't he to do what he liked with it? - nor to stand there and watch while he wolfed down the meal. But Moorhen was as awkward a wolf as Driftwood - just in a much less friendly way. So she did both, and continued to stare unnervingly as he ate.

It did bring her a small amount of satisfaction to see him consuming his meal with such gusto. She erroneously believed that he was enjoying himself, and felt warmed to have brought him some measure of happiness. When next he looked up at her, she would offer an encouraging wag of her tail.

Her gaze was not quite so intense as she relaxed into the interaction. Things seemed to be going swimmingly, so there was no need to be nervous. And, believing the ice to be most thoroughly broken between them, she decided to test the waters. You are a good wolf, she said to the male, her words more matter of fact than flirty, which was what she had been going for. Flattering would have to do. Thank you for loyalty.

She just kept staring. And staring. And staring—every time he risked a quick peek, there her eyes were, boring deep into him. They were such an unnervingly strange color, too, those eyes—doubtless they were going to haunt his dreams tonight. If he could sleep. He was doing exactly as she'd told him, though, wasn't he?! As fast as he could! He was giving a whole new meaning to the phrase "wolfing it down!" So why was she still staring at him!? Driftwood felt unnervingly like a mouse caught in a hawk's hungry sights, which really didn't make him into any more slow and graceful of an eater. It was in the middle of one of these little stolen glances of his own though that he caught a sight that did stop him in his tracks for a moment. Moorhen was...wagging her tail at him? Was this part of some convoluted and clever plot to set him further off-balance? Because it was working, if so.

Driftwood was cautiously optimistic, though. Maybe she'd meant it? Maybe it was to reassure him that he was doing well, and just as she had asked. He even ventured a teeny, tiny, uncomfortably stiff wag of his own: one tick left, one tick right, and there, the gesture was returned. Only then he instinctively tried to swallow his last half-chewed mouthful in order to audibly reply, and in the process a bit of his meal lodged itself sideways in earnest.

Driftwood gagged, coughed, gasped, and collapsed wheezing to the sand for a minute as he worked the chunk of meat loose. Smooth. The impact on the cold snowy sand seemed to have done the trick, though, because after another few breathless moments of gagging and retching he visibly managed to swallow the bite. His belly roiled as it accepted the offering, but he had to give the remainder of the rather large fish a rather dubious look: no guarantees the next bite would stay down. And okay, yeah...as it turned out maybe talking was better than chomping. Or at least safer.

You are a good wolf, offered up Moorhen as Driftwood tried to continue his staring contest with the now-headless fish. Thank you for loyalty. I am? said Driftwood, and, Oh, er, ah...thanks. I mean, I guess I try? ... You're welcome? This was not at all what he'd been expecting to hear from her. Especially since he had trouble recalling any signs she'd ever done more than tolerate him. Driftwood really was being thrown for a loop here, and his brain scrambled to try and find some answers for what was going on. I mean, uh, you're... you're a pretty good wolf too, right? Y'know? I mean... I mean if you weren't good and loyal, Seelie wouldn't have picked you and promoted you, see, so obviously you must be, it's definitely not just me that thinks so and... and... yeah. Seelie picks good wolves, as he rambled on and then stuttered to a halt, hardly even hearing what he was saying as his mind kept turning over and over. And then something clicked, and then it was Driftwood's turn to stare at his fellow wolf. In horror. Wait, what if Seelie had made an error in judgment? What if the reason Moorhen ws here and approaching and, uh, bribing him like this, was all because she had made a gross error in judgment as well? What if all this talk of "good wolves" and "loyalty" was her way of edging around to trying to promote him? I mean...what other possible reason could somewolf have to bring up loyalty as the particular trait they were singling out? It wasn't like she was praising his speed or stealth or cleverness or the plushness of his coat or how his eyes glimmered like stars or whatever. No, it seemed very pointed to Driftwood that it was loyalty blunt Moorhen was choosing to speak of here.

Driftwood was starting to hyperventilate now, just a little. No fish to blame for any breathing problems this time, though; the half-eaten salmon lay forlorn and forgotten, flakes of snow quietly drifting over the top of it as its consumer stared in gap-mouthed fearful anticipation at the wolf who had fished the critter up. Surely Moorhen knew Driftwood would be a disaster of a leader, but right now Drift was sure that was where this whole thing was headed.

  A darkly amused thought flashed through his head: maybe it would have been better to just choke on the fish. That would have been quicker and more dignified an end than this was about to become, at least. Aiee!

The Akhult's expression shifted quickly from eager watchfulness to concern and then disgust as Driftwood began to choke. She wondered if she ought to do something, but the male handled it on his own, convulsing there on the sand for a moment before eventually swallowing down the troublesome piece of fish. There was something a bit off about this whole exchange, but Moorhen decided to press on while it still seemed to be going at least somewhat well.

"You are very handsome," she said, but she was thinking about him hacking up salmon and it didn't come out quite as convincingly as she'd wanted it to. Instead, it sounded quite rote and mechanical, as things often did when she was expressing them from memory rather than the heart.

Her throat felt very tight all of the sudden, and words began to flee her as she got stuck there in a sneaky spiral of shame. Even Driftwood, one of the most awkward wolves she knew, could run circles around her in the social arena. Everyone always seemed to be several steps ahead of her, even when she was trying her hardest to understand and communicate. She couldn't hope to keep up with Driftwood, and she was beginning to wonder if he hadn't been made a bit uncomfortable just by being in her presence. Surely not?

She just kept watching him, although Driftwood was sure there must be way more interesting things about for her to be doing. There was something a little off about her expression now, though; less intense than before, more...reserved? He wasn't sure. Maybe she was reevaluating her consideration of this particular wolf for accolades and promotions...which meant maybe the rotten salmon had done its job somehow after all, huh. And he hadn't even had to die a dramatic writhing choking death there on the sand for it. Great?

He'd thought the terribad offer she'd so doubtlessly been about to make was going to be the death of him... but to his surprise, she took yet another unexpected turn. Driftwood just didn't know what to make of this bitch: she was almost fascinatingly mercurial but how pray tell was one supposed to know how to react to any of it?! Like the ever-changing seas she could be calm and welcoming one moment only to be stirred to stormy wrath and deadly danger the next, he felt. And now, and now she was... telling him he was handsome? Driftwood's jaw clicked shut with a snap, and for a long moment his eyes simply kept on staring at her, as the awkward silence stretched almost unbearably long. The gears in Driftwood's brain seemed ready to freeze up, screeching along and fighting the flakes of rust that tried to stop their every clunking movement. Had he really heard her say what he'd thought she just said? It seemed impossible, but, but... but he did notice now that she seemed to be becoming almost as acutely uncomfortable as he himself.

This did seem more than a little ironic, that possibly at this point both of them were so horrendously embarrassed that perhaps all parties involved now wished this whole scene had never taken place to begin with. (Including, most probably, Driftwood abruptly and incongruously, the fish. Undoubtedly.) You... you're... Say something, Driftwood—ye gods! Not something stupid or awkward or terrible or putting your foot back in your mouth though, not THAT— Well, that seemed to narrow down the array of options rather severely to something perilously close to if not right at zero. You, uh...think I'm handsome? he said in bewilderment, upon which his expression instantly changed to one of pure mortification. I, I mean... I didn't think you looked at me like that, ever! I thought you hated me if anything, or, or...I don't know! Ah, there went his runaway tongue again. Great. He did at least stop himself before he blabbered out that he'd thought it quite possible Moorhen hated everyone in fact—except for Seelie, naturally, because who could ever hate the wonderful and gentle and kind Seelie?—or that yeah, Driftwood had always been more than a little discomfited by her and her scary, judging, strange eyes that so liked to skewer one's soul.

This was a new side to the girl, however. A completely new side. And while Driftwood didn't know just what to do with that, and was pretty acutely uncomfortable about it, he also found that he was... intrigued? There was something about her newfound vulnerability here that was distinctly appealing. Or maybe...maybe it was the unusually alluring note to her scent that he had only just now become vaguely cognizant of, as he drifted haphazardly closer to her and a sudden skirl of the breeze carried her essence directly toward him. Driftwood couldn't help but reach out his nose a little further for a bit of a deeper and more appreciative sniff. Then he remembered she'd been trying to say some things to him—important things he had trouble believing entirely, but which in the wake of her scent suddenly seemed infinitely more plausible than just a moment before. You're pretty stunning yourself, he blurted unthinkingly. Which he almost immediately wanted to take back, and yet—it was only the truth, wasn't it? The...possibly not entirely complimentary truth, if he was to be entirely truthful with himself: the choice of word had been no accident, with Driftwood frequently rendered meek and speechless by her domineering, steely-eyed presence. That...might not be how Moorhen herself took it, though. Driftwood caught his breath as he trapped his tongue between his teeth; he wanted to take his words back and yet he also didn't. His heart beat itself against his ribcage like a trapped bird desperate for escape as he wondered which way the wind would shift next. This was new territory he was exploring, which seemed wildly unsafe and terrifying for him in the normal course of events, but somewhere deep down he suddenly kind of...liked it?

Oh gods of little fishes and crabs, what was this crazy bitch doing to him?! Driftwood was feeling less and less himself here, but somehow as he realized that he also found himself wondering if that was entirely a bad thing. If maybe this new and different self in these new and different circumstances was one he favored, or ought to. If this crazy bitch with the scary eyes didn't come roaring back and go ripping out his throat for daring to be different, that was; something in him was still afraid of that, too, as his wide, slightly wild eyes desperately sought out hers.

Although she lacked the presence of mind to forumlate a proper response, Moorhen understood what it was he said to her, then - even through the slight stutter and surprise. "Jeg gjør ikke," she said in a somewhat sulky voice, wondering where he'd gotten that idea. They'd hardly spoken! And although she did not usually seek him out or go out of the way to acknowledge him, she did have respect for him and for what he contributed to the pack. Did he not realize that? How many of her other packmates might feel the same way?

Her ears fell back in dismay, only to press forward intently at his next declaration. "Me?" she squeaked, half charmed and half scandalized by such a thought. "You say I am stan-staun-ning?" Her eyes were almost comically wide as she tried to process this, wondering if Driftwood had always thought this or if it was a new development, and mostly she just wanted to scream STOP LOOKING AT ME because no one had given him permission to enjoy her physical features in this way! Somehow, it had never occured to Moorhen that she might be pretty or ugly or desireable or anything in between. The idea of someone looking at her any seeing anything other than Moorhen, plain and simple, was incredibly difficult to wrap her head around.

But she was suddenly very sure that she liked being pretty - stunning? Whatever. It was a heady feeling and she didn't know whether to preen like and idiot or run away like an idiot, but either way, she was going to be an idiot.

"No one has sayed to me staunning before," she said meekly, trying to explain what she knew was probably a highly emotional expression as it writ itself across her face.

Driftwood cringed a little at the harsh and sulky syllables that dripped totally unintelligibly from Moorhen's mouth. Oh shit. He'd really done it now, hadn't he—he'd crossed the line, grown too familiar, inhaled a little too deeply of her delicious scent and now—newly empowered to pass such judgments by her recent promotion, probably even specifically tasked to take out useless and/or vexing packmembers like himself should they get too uppity—now she was going to ensure he was punished for it. That was the proper translation of her foreign mutterings there, wasn't it? "You overstep, you scurrilous slimy dog! Now I kill you!" Driftwood had never translated anything before but was pretty sure he had the gist of it. And now he could only cower there and wait for the lightning bolt to strike him down... for if he ran he would doubtless only bring worse upon himself. This was quarry he'd never pursued, and he didn't know quite what would await him if he caught it in the end—he only knew that somewhere deep down he suddenly wanted to catch it more than anything.

But yes, yes, he was quite convinced that these words proved she did hate him... right up until her expression changed in the next few breaths, her ears performing the most exquisitely dramatic acrobatics they could as they drew themselves up at attention once more. From deep and gravelly and menacing (to Driftwood's own humiliatedly flattened ears), her syllables suddenly did a complete about-face, climbing the scales and becoming almost puppyishly pitched and inept. It rather ruined her whole aura of menace from a moment before. She squeaked—for goodness sake, she sounded half-mouse! Driftwood's own ears became unglued, and he chanced another hopeful glance in her direction. (And another appreciative little sniff—he couldn't quite help himself.) Never before had he heard such a note in Moorhen's voice—and it emboldened him enough to let him creep forward a small pace and a half, and start his tail up with a small, hopeful waggle of a wave. How much taller he was than her was only emphasized by his sidling closer, but he still kept himself crouched deliberately lower, which managed to put them on more nearly-equal footing as he gave Moorhen another and a longer sidelong glance. That's... that's what I said. Yeah... He swallowed hard, and could taste salmon juice in the back of his throat as he did so, which was somewhat unmanning—he hadn't exactly distinguished himself with his graceful taking up of her gift, now had he, no matter how mightily he might've tried. But contrary to his worst inner fears she wasn't trying to murder him for his own ineptness now from what he could tell, and—well, that might be enough. Or more than enough; more than he had looked for, at any rate. Driftwood caught himself huffing another taste of her wonderful aura and cleared his throat in embarassment before slowly continuing.

There was still some part of him that was apprehensively ready for her to turn on him at any moment, to snap back to her usual growling self in the sudden flash of a tooth. But there was another small but growing spark in him that was actually daring to hope... to hope what? He wasn't even quite sure. The scent of her was making him quite giddy as another fitful gust served it up to him on a platter once more. But he still wasn't quite sure what to do with it, and was feeling his way through the darkness one inching step at a time. M-m-mmmmaybe they were afraid to, he offered softly, in response to her bewildered peeping observation that no one else had ever told her she was stunning before. Or, erm, "staunning." Her harsh accent had seemed part of her intimidating spiky shell of armor previously, to Driftwood, but now it struck him as, well...kinda cute, at least when she used that tone and inflection with it. His tail wagged faster in appreciation as he ventured another stealthy step in her direction. At least he hoped it was stealthy... he found himself unexpectedly more invested in this than in any hunt he'd ever chased in before. Driftwood swallowed harder as his eyes inadvertently dropped to the sand for a moment. He was afraid to admit how high those stakes were building within, even to himself; it made his movements even less sure and any action all the more daunting. He abruptly wasn't even sure how things had managed to get this far; he snuck a quick flash of a peek back at the trail of wet pawprints in the snow-flocked sands behind him and felt intimidated by even those few steps he'd somehow convinced himself to take closer to this girl. Maybe if he was smart he really ought to back off now... but he didn't want to. He really didn't want to.

Maybe they didn't think you'd believe them? he half-breathed, which seemed perfectly understandable to him. He could hardly believe he himself was saying these things. Things he'd never even dared to think let alone give voice to. What the hell was she turning him into, here? And even more bafflingly, why did he want to let her lead him away from himself like this? This was crazy. Absolutely crazy. ...But not entirely in a bad way, he had to admit. There seemed to be some definite benefits, he thought as he breathed in her hypnotic scent once more, and dared to meet her stunning eyes. When not squinted in suspicion or anger their color caught the light in a most interesting way, he couldn't help but note. I don't remember ever seeing eyes like yours before. Anywhere. They're stunning. You're stunning. And you smell great. Er, whoops. He wasn't sure that last, especially, was actually what any girl wanted to hear. He rushed to cover it up, as artlessly as usual: I-I can see why Seelie made you a leader, you know, even if you are small. Small but not, I mean. I mean you don't seem small. Even though you are. Driftwood flailed for another moment in the verbal mire he was digging for himself; no sooner did he escape one than did he lurch inevitably toward another.

This was all so confusing! What was wrong with her eyes? Moorhen blinked at him, as though this might clue her in, but her eyes felt the same as always. Perhaps she was just making a strange face? Wait - was he making fun of her? Her eyes narrowed as this occured to her, but just as quickly, she decided that he was being genuine. And, apparently, he was afraid of her.

This revelation surprised Moorhen moderately less than the rest of them. If she was anything, she was scary, right?

Before she could really decide if she'd rather be scary or stunning, Driftwood was saying more words. Too quickly and too strung together for her to really get the whole picture, but what she heard was certainly enough! She was stunning and she smelled nice and she was a good leader and... small? Maybe she'd misheard that. Either way, Driftwood didn't seem to think it was a bad thing! Maybe she was alright at this flirting business. It seemed to be going rather well, at least!

"I - thank you," she replied, flustered by all this praise. He suddenly seemed very close to her, though, so she took a measured step back, not really sure how to proceed anymore. More than anything, she wanted to retreat back to solitude so that she could process the conversation at her own speed. However, it seemed sort of impolite to bow out, now. "Seelie said I am good girl," she added, because she hadn't noticed him saying that, and she wasn't sure if he hadn't known or if he had just forgotten. Because obviously if he was trying to list all her good qualities, the polite thing to do was help him out. Luckily for them both, she was out of ideas after that. "You are good boy," she added, just to reciprocate. "And - um. Smell nice." Even though he smelled mostly just like a wolf. He didn't smell bad, at least.

"Small" wasn't quite the word he had been looking for... stocky? A short but bulky boxy sort? Squished? None of the words he was picking seemed quite right, though, and if one was a little worse than the rest of his choices, well then— did it really stick out that much more in this whole morass of ineptitude he was displaying? Moorhen was already drawing back, reconsidering; Driftwood halted his sneaky forward motions and pulled back a reluctant half a step himself, ears slowly drooping as he watched the girl with continuing wretched sidelong hope, though that hope was now dimming. He'd blown it, obviously, as he'd known he would. Too eager, too forward, too clumsy, he berated himself. You're welcome, he said in a very small voice nonetheless, even if his nose was facing the ground now rather than her as he said it, and then in an even tinier voice, It's just the truth?

"Truth" had rarely been enough to save him before, though, and with a sinking pit in his stomach he was pretty certain it wouldn't be nearly enough this time. His tail was inexorably tucking itself down close to his legs now, tight against his rump and no longer able to stir itself to life. Of course she'd backed off from him; who wouldn't? It had been dumb of him to think that her seeking him out actually meant anything potentially different between them. He was as brainless and overeager as a puppy, without the charming fuzzy smallness of his own to match and earn forgiveness for his lack of manners. He did however manage to nod in agreement when Moorhen told him what Seelie said of her—though this puzzled Drift somewhat; even he knew it was kind of unusual to be tacking on one's own compliments to a string someone else had tried to offer. Was she trying to get at something particular here? Or perhaps to just point out how compliments were done right by others, and maybe nudge him into doing a little better? That seemed likely. He was pretty sure he'd always been no great shakes at any of this flattery stuff. But then she threw that theory for a bit of a dizzying loop as well, as she told him that he was a good boy too... I am? he blurted in surprise, unable to stop himself from looking measuringly over at her again, trying to determine if she really meant this. She was so difficult to read, and so mercurial! What did she want from him, here, anyhow?! Driftwood was perfectly willing to offer it, he was sure, if only he could figure out exactly what it was. I mean, I...try, at least...I guess...! No, no, it was too soon to let that spark of hope be rekindled by this remark. He'd read too much into what he'd thought she was trying to say before, after all. Even if she was now telling him he smelled nice, too, at which his face couldn't help but brighten, and the very tip of his sandy brown tail wag.

It was kind of an awkward compliment though, he did have to admit from the receiving side of it. How was one supposed to react to that? A simple thank you? A brief explanatory recitation of one's personal bathing habits that made it all possible? He was indeed adrift in all of this, and desperately wishing something like a floating log or other life preserver would be thrown his way. Um, yes...I... thank you. I... I really appreciate that. Really, really truly he did, but the words sounded so pathetically lame as they fell artlessly from his tongue. Yeah. Mere honesty was definitely not enough here. What did all those other dog wolves have that he didn't, that didn't chase away all their love interests right off the bat? How could anyone anywhere ever manage to find companionship or love when there were such treacherous social swamps as this to be navigated on the way there?! I try to bathe... No, that was dumb too. Find something less dumb to say, Driftwood. Now! Quick! Before she retreats even further and gives up on you entirely! But simply yelling such commands at himself inside his skull somehow didn't quite work to summon up better words, more suave and interesting and lyrical options to lure her in closer to him once more. His nose twitched forlornly, and he lowered his head to scuffle anxiously at the sand for a moment and hopefully buy himself a little space in which to think.

He had to move aside slightly to do this, however, out and around the half-eaten dilapidated fish. And it was only as his claws melted a faint trail in the snowflakes and left light furrows in the sand that they snagged on his earlier find which he had by now forgotten all about. A seashell?! he immediately thought in wild relief—girls liked seashells, too, right? If only this one was big and pretty and intact—but that hope also quickly died aborning, however, as he scraped again at the sharp edge with more purpose, and instead drew up... Um. Driftwood's eyes were baffled. Some strange artifact he'd never before seen, at least so far as he could recollect. It reminded him more of a tough and stringy plant than anything, he supposed, as he drew the weird half-translucent white thing up to have a closer look, with a weird oversized honeycomb pattern to its wide, regular spacing of white rings. It sure didn't smell like any plant he'd ever seen before—but as it obviously wasn't animal or mineral, either, that left vegetable as his closest and blank-eyed guess. Um, he said aloud, still stalling for time. This was no seashell. He had no idea what it was, or for whom it might have served what purpose. In some desperation he held the thing out toward Moorhen, watching in bafflement as it hung there looped loosely about his paw. ...I... don't suppose you want this... this thing I just found? ...I'll just... add it to my collection, I guess... if not... Maybe if he was really, really lucky Moorhen would actually like inexplicable alien objects of great uniqueness.

Or, as was far more likely, think he was a blithering idiot to be picking up random inedible objects on the beach and pawning them off on random passerby. Even though Driftwood was very very much certain right now that he wanted her to be anything but some chance-met rando— but despite his repeated stalling tactics he still wasn't certain how to say that, to make Moorhen aware of how much she intrigued him, particularly with this new side of her he'd never before been privileged to see, and how very much he wished her to stay and further their acquaintanceship to something a little deeper. Deepen into what, exactly, he didn't know... but somehow he doubted he'd ever have the chance to really figure that out, either, as he offered up a feeble little half-grin and forlornly dangled the mystery object in her direction. She would have to come closer to get it, at least, if by some miracle she did want it, he thought wretchedly. Oh, why today, of all days, and why now did he have to pull this freakish thing up from the beach in place of the big pearly beautiful seashell he'd so very much wanted to uncover for her!

Moorhen was honestly uncertain whether or not this was going well. Things seemed - tense. But they were also talking, which was more than could usually be said for the pair of them. Mostly, she just nodded emphatically while Driftwood struggled through his own thoughts, although she did pipe up with a half-hearted, "Me too," when he came to the part about bathing. Moorhen was a rather finicky creature, although it was more of a nervous tick than a real desire to be immaculately clean.

Then, quite suddenly, there was a weird thing between them. And not the kind of thing she'd been going for! It was just a floppy sort of... weirdly shaped tendon? Moorhen came closer to give it a curious sniff, but it didn't seem to come from any sort of animal. It was sort of clear and white at the same time, like ice except not cold. Moorhen wasn't quite sure what it was, but she took it delicately between her teeth with a murmur of thanks.

They were very close, now. Moorhen wasn't quite sure why that felt so strange to her. Perhaps she really did need to spend more time with her packmates, if being in Driftwood's prescence was this foreign to her. "It is very nice," she offered, although she still wasn't sure what it was.

Driftwood nodded like a brainless puppet as Moorhen admitted that she, too, tried to bathe. There was probably something debonair he could have replied to this, something about how her cleanliness obviously left her coat as shining and beautiful as the moon on the sea or stars at night or something, but naturally the words didn't want to cooperatively come to heel for Driftwood, so he just kept nodding.

The movement tapered off, however, and in fact all motion stilled for a few instants as Moorhen floated closer to carefully pluck the strange thing from his paw after all. His offering had been accepted! He wanted to cheer, but held himself poised and still. You're welcome, he remembered to breathe in reply after a moment of staring hypnotized down at her dark ruff and sharp ears. Another surreptitious sniff, her scent giving him the shivers, and then: It's not nearly as nice as you though.

Driftwood strongly suspected there was such a thing as too much honesty, and immediately felt that he had stumbled right back into one of those times here and now. His tongue darted out to lick nervously at his nose, and then he tried to deflect with, Erm... do you know what it is, though? He squirmed a little like a naughty puppy before admitting, ...because I don't. Though, uh, I don't think it's edible. From the smell. He tried to focus on he thing's smell, at any rate, though it was incredibly difficult when it was so bland and dead and boring in comparison to the alluring aroma of the stunningly captivating creature who held it. He didn't want to eat Moorhen, mind you, however...though a small lick did sound strangely appealing. Driftwood swallowed hard, tasting salmon more faintly in the back of his throat again and reminding himself strenly to behave. Moorhen could and would still rip him a new one if he wasn't careful enough to toe the line of propriety... wherever that might fluctuatingly lie in this particular moment. The bounds of good taste and good manners seemed to him to be as wiggly and treacherous as a coiling snake beneath one's paws. But he didn't want to find out that line had been crossed by a swift and possibly fatal strike from Moorhen here. The teetering edge of danger he stood on here left him increasingly giddy, or perhaps that was just Moorhen's scent once again, distracting him...

I bet it'd be fun to play with though, he said rather vacuously. Although he wasn't really thinking of the mysterious alien object anymore at all, whoops. If he could entice Moorhen to play, however, that seemed both more appealing than simply sitting here endlessly trying and failing to talk good, and somewhat safer and more familiar ground where any lapses of his might be a little more easily forgiven when he ventured them.

An uncertain flicker of Moorhen's ears answered Driftwood's question: No, she did not know what the strange artifact could be. She'd hadn't been planning on eating it, but she'd thought it might make a nice decoration for her wood pile. When the male mentioned playing with it, however, she found herself warming quickly to the idea.

Abruptly, Moorhen stuck her nose out to jab it into Driftwood's side before performing an about face and darting off down the beach. She shot a come and catch me! look over her shoulder - something she'd been practicing lately, ever since being reintroduced to playing by Mou. The gift dangled from her maw, hooked on her bottom teeth so that even when she panted excitedly, it did not fall away.

Moorhen didn't quite seem to know what to think of the thing either, from the flickered "shrug" of her ears and her deafening silence. Except, perhaps, to think to turn it into a weapon with which to poke innocent Driftwoods...! Drift jumped as the strange set of translucent circles was jabbed into his ribs, a sneaky attack that he probably should have expected, might have anticipated if he wasn't so driven to distraction and unprepared for the lightning-speed change of attitude Moorhen again displayed. He'd had a vague recollection that he had asked her to play once before, and she'd gone all stiff and prickly and disapproving on him about it, so that he had been standing there increasingly doubting the wisdom of his offered enticement... And then she surprised him and had gotten the first tag in and was off down the Strand before he could so much as twitch. He blinked and stared stupidly after her receding umber tail for a moment, caught flatfooted, and then with a dawning grin of his own and an upward flip of the tail he took off after her. Yes, this was much more like it! He'd had about all the wordsing about of wordy words he could stand for the day; time to take some action instead!

Admittedly, Driftwood wasn't necessarily the most graceful on his feet physically, either (especially when he was nearing full-on overgrown goofball puppy mode), but he at least felt passably competent there most of the time, unlike in any verbal spars. Besides which, play was supposed to be a little overwrought and ham-handed. That was part of why he liked it so. His lolling grin and galumphing gait rocketed after Moorhen, sped on by what certainly seemed to be a beckoning teasing gaze of her own. His strides were longer than Moorhen's at least, and she didn't really want to escape him right now, did she, especially without watching where she was going... So it was only a few breaths before the gleefully intent Driftwood's steps caught up with her own. His eyes gleamed as he swooped forth and swatted a large paw dressed in a few small clumps of gritty snow towards her, but his real target for the moment was the object dangling from her teeth. Driftwood darted his own jaws down to seize it in a different spot and give it a mighty tug. Never mind that he'd just willingly given the alien device up to her: obviously he was going to make her wrestle with him for it at least a little. He flopped his ears back nearer his skull and rolled his eyes in exaggerated playfulness toward Moorhen—for surely she wasn't just gonna take all this lying down, and the delighted Driftwood was excited to see just what she might try to pull next. Besides the ringy object of mystery, there, in the most literal sense: that was a given.

But bigger than her though Driftwood might be, at least so far as his lanky legs and tall rawboned stature went underneath his winter fluff, she had in fact filled out her frame with muscle in the months since he had first seen her and was rather more solidly built than him. Drift wasn't entirely sure that even if he threw his whole body into the effort he could manage to win this tug-of-war, if she really wanted to keep ahold of the strange object.

He caught up rather quickly, which was not terribly surprising, considering the length of those legs of his. Moorhen didn't mind, though. Running was not something she did for fun, so the faster he caught up the faster they could get to the actual play.

When he neared her, Moorhen did her best to make a sharp turn away, intending to bring the Thing out of his reach. This probably wouldn't help much, because her turning radius was not that much smaller than his. Still, she kept her chin pointing away from him and spun away from his reaching jaws in a loose circle, tail wagging high above her back in a jaunty, gloating gesture. She couldn't keep it away from him for long, however, and his teeth soon snapped shut over the other end of the Thing. Moorhen gave a playful growl and tugged on the other side, her ears flickering briefly at the feeling of it stretching between them. How weird!

Driftwood by contrast to the lady didn't mind running circles around Moorhen one bit. Quite literally, as his lolloping legs kept churning whilst his teeth hanging onto the Thing ended up dragging him around and around as Moorhen spun tauntingly about. It was far and away preferable to standing around trying to make small talk though, that was for sure. Even though the strange stretchy pull of the Thing kind of made his teeth tingle and jaw ache; just what the hell kind of plant from outer space was this thing comprised of, seriously. He was growing increasingly tempted to unhook his jaws, here, but with Moorhen's beckoning presence dug in on its other end Driftwood certainly wasn't going to let go of it quite that easily. He loudly mock-growled right back at the female and, setting his teeth deeper into the bizarre material, gave his head a mighty shake to and fro, once and then again, as he hoped that the see-through honeycombed not-a-plant Thing would yank the wolf of his interest in a little closer to him in the process.

That quick shake of the head did even weirder things as it pitched and yawed against his teeth, though, and the sensation was disturbing enough that he couldn't help but yank open his mouth and work his lower jaw for a minute. Wazzat thing made of? he wondered aloud a little light-headedly as his head snapped back a short ways in a reaction to the sudden release of tension. Driftwood doubted it was just whiplash or the twisty turning circles they'd been tracing in the sand that were making his head spin, though, this close to and as he acquired such great gulping breaths of Moorhen-flavored air. Much of her scent signature was a familiar one from his wandering patrols of the island, but that strange, hypnotic new undercurrent to it was unlike anything he'd ever tasted before, and something that Drift couldn't quite get enough of on this strange new day. ...In the meantime, in Driftwood's estimate he'd been pretty wrong about just how much fun the Thing would be, but the thought hardly mattered to him, distracted as he was. In fact even the weird sideways skewing pull number it had done on his teeth wasn't too big of a deterrent, because in pretty short order he'd lunged forward and was grabbing forth again. This time though he wasn't aiming too intently for the Thing itself, what with Moorhen having been gyrating about so trickily, and the stuff of its bones not being all that appealing a sight or smell or feel... No, mesmerizing brown spinning top Moorhen's tail, or whatever other fluffy appendage might present itself would do just fine, really. I think it might be trying to bite you, look out! he warned Moorhen before he did so, though, only to amend this a moment later with a wide, goofy grin as he seized blindly upon whatever his grabbing jaws could freshly catch himself this time: Oh wait, no, 'at's me.

The waggy, flat-eared expression of silliness might have held a hint of apology, even, if it hadn't been such a broad smirk plastered upon his lips. He lifted one broad tawny-white paw to poke at her, and maybe draw her in a little closer yet. ...If he'd been thinking about it before he acted Driftwood might have spun himself into more of a panic over what Moorhen's reaction might be, over how much of his nonsense she might put up with before she snapped and turned on him for his brash forwardness and lack of respect, for her freshly-raised rank if nothing else— but the whole point of playing was surely to not have to think, to go forgivingly and with whole-hearted eagerness wherever the moment might be trying to lead... and that was what Driftwood was unconsciously doing now: very much not thinking before he acted. His eyes peeked slyly up at Moorhen from under blonde lashes, gleaming mischievously as his hormones clamored at him to seize the moment and "helpfully" drowned out the small, rational voice of worry in the back of his mind.

It was a nice gift - pretty and all - but Moorhen didn't really want to play tug-of-war with it. The way it stretched made her a little uncomfortable, and she didn't want to break it and ruin it, since she'd only ever seen the one. It would be difficult to replace. Regardless of her feelings on the matter, she dropped it at once when Driftwood said it might bite her, and took a step back for good measure, already shifting to kill mode. But a second later Driftwood had bitten her - was still biting her tail.

"Drift!" she exclaimed, her tail twitching from side to side as it tried to wag while still caught between he teeth. Moorhen dove for his tail, then, dragging Driftwood along with her if he kept hold of hers. Once she caught it between her jaws, she began trying to removed hers from his mouth - but with her jaws busy, the only thing she could do was try to side-step him, which - if he held on! - would cause him to side-step, and the most likely outcome was them turning in an endless circle like a gooft wolf ouroboros.

The foreign object went wafting gently down to the sands where it huddled in a lump. Perhaps it sat there in relief, perhaps it simply needed to slump there for a minute or two to recuperate from its recent ordeals. Perhaps it was put out at having missed its opportunity to strike and take down the Moorhen who'd held it. At any rate, Driftwood hardly paid it any mind beyond being a little surprised that Moorhen had just up and dropped it as well: Mwrff fween mphhffrfmrr mwyt? he said. Which even Driftwood realized was a less than helpful query, here, but frankly he wasn't about to give up his grip in order to get his questions answered—they all tended to be dumb and lame and get everyone stuck in conversational dead ends anyway. The tail was trying to get away from him but he wouldn't let it. He didn't want to actually hurt Moorhen, mind you, but he did dig his teeth in to the fur padding her tailbones just a little deeper, making sure he'd be as hard to shake as possible. Moorhen might just have to go through the rest of life with a big clumsy Driftwood-shaped tail ring at this point, it seemed.

Except that she gave as good as she got. Driftwood was too intent on making his own toothhold secure, so that he was paying rather less attention than he should to where his own caudal vertebrae were swinging about; the unsupervised tail was accosted by his ranking superior, as Driftwood's yelp of surprise was muffled by Moorhen's own tail. Driftwood rolled his eyes about as the girl's tailtip flopped repeatedly into his field of vision and obscured his getting a better eyeful of what she was doing to the appendage protruding from his own rump. He still wouldn't let go, though, not for anything, and so when Moorhen braced herself against the earth and started pulling sideways that left Driftwood with few options besides to go along. Moorhen kept trying to jerk her own tail free, but goofy grinning Driftwood wasn't having any of it and only tried to wag all the harder, his own tail's escape attempts pathetic and halfhearted indeed. In fact, not at all loath to let her keep her mouthful, he used the awkward circle they'd created to try to take one much bigger stride closer, into the center where he'd inevitably be as close to Moorhen as her next exhaled breath— but in paying more attention to the tail-wrangling than to where his feet were going, naturally this meant Driftwood stepped directly in the remnants of the salmon. Out from under him went the one foot, which meant the other shoulder skewed sideways and pulled him off-balance and sent him careening straight for Moorhen, and right down toward the cold creeping tide now incoming just beyond her, for that matter.

Now his grip on her tail finally loosened in shock. Driftwood gasped as the close-by ocean spray that seemed comprised of sheer ice went plowing halfway up his foreleg. He jerked that leg back, and then belatedly recalled himself just enough to make another wild flailing snatch of teeth at Moorhen's tail, hopefully before it flew out of reach entirely—hey, no fair, get back here! Just when he'd thought maybe he'd managed to maneuver himself to where he might be "winning" this encounter at last, too, sheesh.

Even at the best of times, Moorhen had a good chance of misunderstanding what was being said to her. So there was no way she'd be able to catch whatever garbled words came out of Driftwood's mouth. Still, she responded with another playful growl, this one slightly more savage from the last, and gladly turned those quick, dizzying circles with him until they stumbled together on the beach. Driftwood escaped largely unscathed, but Moorhen was sent tumbling into the surf, falling on her shoulder in a painless but sopping wet heap.

It was cold, but Moorhen was used to it. She grinned up at him with a mouthful of teeth before shooting to her legs, following after him with a playful growl gurgling in her throat. She hoped to take him from the side, rearing up on her hind legs to wrap them around his neck and hopefully bring him tumbling into the sand along with her.

Dirftwood was fortunate that there was a sturdy wolf-shaped shield named Moorhen that stood between him and the ocean, and took the brunt of the fall. That really hadn't been quite what he intended, and after his second futile tailsnatch his expression grew more troubled as he realized that he'd kinda shoved Moorhen right into the freezing cold water that his own leg hadn't much enjoyed—oops. He didn't have much time to try and apologize or do anything about it, though, because Moorhen was already up and at 'em and about to take her revenge: taking the cold dousing much more in stride than had Drift, she rose up and lifted her own dripping forelegs to collide with his ribs. Driftwood let out a loud OOF but didn't much resist as Moorhen toppled him in turn. Fair was fair after all, right? And he didn't want her to think he was going to insist on having the upper hand the whole time, here.

At least she missed the salmon...I think, thought Driftwood as he gazed up at her with his own back flopped into the cold wet sand, a silly and slightly apologetic grin on his face as he wagged his tail like a misbehaving pup. Moorhen was keeping the game going, so Driftwood relievedly figured that his latest lapse had been forgiven...and was even a little smug: turning this whole encounter into playtime rather than talktime had been just about the best idea ever. He lazily batted a wet and sandy paw toward her front, not really minding whether or not it connected. He'd never seen this side of Moorhen before, and he definitely liked it; the last thing he wanted to do was to chance her stopping all this roughhousing in its tracks.

Which was why when he unthinkingly reached his forelegs up to grab Moorhen's head and yank it closer, offering up a big slurping lick toward her face, he froze, eyes wide. He stared at her, aghast at his own actions and trying to figure out what exactly it was that was driving him to act in such ways he never had before, up until the next wave came lapping up and stroked its cold fingers down the length of his spine. Driftwood shuddered, and then feebly offered up, Uh, ah... let me try to get some of that wet sand off of you...? Yeah, like she was going to buy that as his innocent intentions behind all this.

Gazing up at her with his belly exposed, Driftwood curled his tail in between his legs, feeling suddenly very vulnerable and fearful of what Moorhen might do... like leave. Shit, he'd blown it now, hadn't he? Even if he really wasn't quite sure what all "it" might encompass still, here. Her changed scent felt like it had dug into his brain like a screwworm larva and was rummaging about in there making any thinking straight nigh-impossible; Driftwood would really need a few minutes alone to sort some of this out, at some point. But he also didn't feel like that was really what he was wanting to happen, here...he just didn't know quite what he did want out of this, yet.

Fortunately for them both (and for mixed and Bryndel), Moorhen had not interacted with enough wolves in this way to think it odd. Her tail wheeled intently above them as she sought to dominate the other, covering her body with his and grizzling so frequently it sounded more like a continuous purr. Her ruddy eyes flashed with an air of superiority, but there was affection there, too, and a carefree sort of happiness that was not often present in his dark features.

Drift give up? she asked with another wag of her tail, dipping her head with a wide, gaping grin to aim a few gentle chomps at his muzzle and neck. Her teeth left no marks upon him, but her message was still clear: I win.

His words seemed conciliatory enough, but she required a clearer surrender from him both because of her ego and her poor comprehension of the common tongue. They could worry about sand later, when victory was not at stake. Just to up the ante, Moorhen pressed more of her significant weight down upon him and let loose another fearsome play-growl.

Confusion, and then dawning hope overtook him again. She didn't seem to resent any of the liberties he was taking...thank freaking goodness. Driftwood remembered how to breathe again, dizzied by a mixture of sudden lessening of anxiety and Moorhen's wondrous scent. His tail unthreaded itself from his half-curled hindlegs and waved itself more and more widely as he smiled up at Moorhen. He was further relieved to see that her own tail was a blur between him and the cloudy skies, sending the occasional snowflake cartwheeling out of its original path, and if her own smirk was rather toothy and accompanied by a rolling growl at least it was broad and sincere. Driftwood shivered again, more pleasantly this time, as Moorhen's teeth scissored playfully through his ruff and across his snout.

"Driftwood give up?" Oh, ah... It took Drift a moment to comprehend the words. Uh, I dunno, he said, and then, with what he slyly suspected was a deliberate misinterpretation: You've still got an awful lot of sand on you; maybe I oughta... And he cut off with a squeaky little yelp as the air was forcefully pressed from his lungs, mock-snarling Moorhen squashing him down into the chilly and oozing beach's edge (oh shit another wave oh gosh oh GOSH that's COLD—but if this was where she had chosen to assert herself, and if this was what he had to suffer through to keep her here with him for now, maybe even forever, so be it!) leaving Driftwood to wonder how the heck he could have ever made the mistake of calling her small. She might be shorter than him—most wolves were, really—but she obviously had no trouble whatsoever throwing what leverage she had into the ring and using it to full, even unfair advantage. All right all right I give up! Oh please don't crush me, great and merciful Akhlut, he drawled with what was rather overdramatic breathiness. He turned to gently take her nearest forepaw in-between his teeth as he gazed up at her in starry-eyed adoration. And despite his Shakespearean protests he also instinctively moved to hook a hindleg up and around her body while she still pressed herself close.

Driftwood wasn't entirely sure he'd survive a whole lot of Moorhen's sort of play, given how sheerly and gleefully physical she liked to turn it all, throwing her weight around so indiscriminately...yet somehow Drift couldn't really say he minded, still. And he was finding too that he cared less and less how out of character she had him acting. He'd never been particularly crazy about his usual awkward self anyhow, and to be riding high on a wave of instinct and not have anyone upbraiding him for it, to have this enchanting creature he'd previously known and yet never actually met not only tolerating his most daring attempts but also reciprocating in her fashion—it was heavenly. He didn't care if his fur froze right to the sand with these sinister, interfering waves (which seemed to be ever so gradually creeping in higher and higher): Driftwood realized he wanted to stay here forever, exactly like this.

There was something very pleasing about having the male at her mercy in this way, but he had yielded, so Moorhen knew it was time to let him up. Still, she took the time to deliver a few last, fond chomps to his neck before extracting herself from their embrace. It was strange, but she immediately missed the warmth of his body and the mingling scent of their fur. While she knew why she smelled "nice", she wasn't sure what it was about Driftwood's scent that allured her today. Perhaps he just smelled different fresh and up close than the spores he left throughout the territory. 

Interesting, but ultimately inconsequential.

Moorhen flounced back down the beach to rescue her gift from the surf, heedless of the foamy waves as they lapped at her legs. With one last huff of acknowledgment and a final wag of her tail in Driftwood's direction, she turned and began trotting back toward her woodpile.