Wheeling Gull Isle danseuses de delphes

Driftwood was wandering more aimlessly than usual, a certain glimmering of bewildered confusion in his still-half-stunned eyes. He meandered an unsteadily weaving path across the beach's face, every now and then pausing—sometimes to watch a bird disappear into the clouds, sometimes to poke distractedly at a bit or seashell or beach wrack, and sometimes for no discernable reason at all. He spotted the unfamiliar white face as he wandered around the corner and padded further from the treeline. Driftwood hesitated, and then slowly moved toward his fellow wolf, recognizing her scent but never having had a form to match with it, previously.

Hello, Tauhou, he said in a low voice, waving his tail in measured, genial arcs. He stopped some small distance away from her and took a deeper experimental sniff of the air. He was slightly disappointed but hugely relieved that this woman showed no signs of whatever strange aura it was that had attached itself to Moorhen. Driftwood figured his life was already complicated enough. His attention sharpened, however, when he spotted the small mica-and-pyrite-flecked rock clutched in her teeth. Driftwood caught his breath and took one large inadvertent step closer. Ooh, what's that? Or rather—where'd you find it, and is there any more? His tone had turned eager, with more than a hint of avariciousness. This girl's find looked so much better than anything Drift had found on the beach all day.