Wheeling Gull Isle treibloka

a little gasp, stuttering; a laugh that flew free into the inches of beloved brine-sweet air. "maybe i am made of snow!" she sent back, hopping onto a ridge still slick with an unmelted drift. 
danill moved at a smooth pace upward, and heda followed, leaving their kills where they lay. if someone came to find them, or if a gull ate part of one — that was only giving back, wasn't it? and the young wolf was too enamoured with showing her compatriot all parts of the island.
the skies were a fathomless grey-blue, gulls wheeling high in the warmer currents. her eyes watched them, head tilted back. 
the very top of the greenhills was a small plateau that treated its climber to a detailed view of how the gradients in sweetharbor glisten through terrain that changed, for each might choose to look in a different direction.
heda, as always, fell into a breathtaken and pious silence, bracing herself with an unconscious grace against the mad buffeting of the wind, flattening pale coat to a whippet-muscled elegance made for traveling in her holy places.