Wheeling Gull Isle yippee-ki-yay

“Seelie!”

The sheepdog whipped around at the current of panic in Driftwood’s voice, hopping to all fours and meeting him halfway with her own alarm bells clamoring. As he rolled through a frenetic interrogation — “Are you hurt? What’s wrong?! What can I do?!” — she conducted her own silent interview, her muzzle seeking to poke and prod at his body to discern if anything was amiss. Aside from the bitter tide of fear that tinged his scent, he seemed hale — and then she realized that all that stress and all that anxiety was for her. Her heart melted and she quieted immediately, shaking her head slowly when he inquired about Thresher. He was such a good wolf.

“My baby,” she whispered simply, finding that it was easy in this moment to keep her emotions under control. If someone else was panicking, she couldn’t be, so Driftwood’s anxious nature actually helped more than she could’ve described. Of course, she wouldn’t have known how to put this into words — I barely do, and I have written her posts for, like…a bazillion years, through all her various incarnations.

Anyway, she found Driftwood’s presence immeasurably comforting, and leaned forward to press a soft kunik to his cheek. “Hope,” she wished him quietly, her cerulean eyes as steadfast as they were sorrowful. She would work to instill it in each of the seawolves, and then perhaps she’d feel a measure of it herself. With her slender muzzle, she butted lightly at his shoulder, trotting a short distance down the beach. She made certain to move westward, for she knew he wasn’t terribly fond of the horses, and entreated him to follow with a flick of her feathered tail and a soft whuff.