“I am not in pain,” Lotte protested weakly, unable to put even a whisper of conviction into her voice as she struggled to sit up. It vexed her to be approached while laterally recumbent — her head jerked up and so did her hips, the water lapping around her as she rocked herself up and jammed her trembling forelegs beneath her. Even that small exertion exhausted her, though, and she sank weakly back onto her side in the river with a grimace. “Maybe I am in a little pain,” she allowed grumpily. Twisting her neck, she looked up at the viridian-eyed woman and then beyond her, judging their distance from the rest of Teaghlaigh. “I am afraid,” she said then, so softly she was certain no other wolf had heard. “I am — ”
She was tired. She was angry.
Huffing out an aggravated sigh, “I cried,” she expostulated, as if crying was the worst possible thing she could have done — as if doing so had disproven all of her carefully cultivated confidence. For Lotte, it was. It had. As the youngest wolf in Teaghlaigh with the exception of her adopted daughter, Lotte held herself to impossible standards. She wanted to be able to outlast and overpower every wolf in the Family with the exception of her mate — not because she was power-hungry or ruthless, but because she wasn’t. She wanted to be the Banríon Teaghlaigh needed her to be, but she didn’t quite know how to get there. How could she be strong enough to impress Declan and soft enough to comfort Olive? Was that even possible? Moreover, how could she be gentle enough to rehabilitate August when she knew that the girl’s heat cycle would automatically earn her Lotte’s unyielding — if temporary — enmity? Most poignantly, how could she impress upon Chusi that Arturo needed to be obeyed without breaking the fiery little spark’s spirit?
“I am not a queenly wolf,” she said, her black-masked face contorting with a grimace of pain, “and I do not know queenly things.” The colorpoint female shifted restlessly through the course of another vicious cramp, then stilled. Motherhood had been the one facet of royalty that she felt absolutely comfortable with, but the threat of losing her children due to the stress of the move was too great. “They are not meant to be out until just before the next full moon, but they are like to tear out my side,” she whispered, her lips pressed tightly together. “If I lose them — if they die — but Olive — and Dagfinn — ” Her thoughts jumped from worry to worry, rendering her basically incoherent.
She was tired. She was angry.
Huffing out an aggravated sigh, “I cried,” she expostulated, as if crying was the worst possible thing she could have done — as if doing so had disproven all of her carefully cultivated confidence. For Lotte, it was. It had. As the youngest wolf in Teaghlaigh with the exception of her adopted daughter, Lotte held herself to impossible standards. She wanted to be able to outlast and overpower every wolf in the Family with the exception of her mate — not because she was power-hungry or ruthless, but because she wasn’t. She wanted to be the Banríon Teaghlaigh needed her to be, but she didn’t quite know how to get there. How could she be strong enough to impress Declan and soft enough to comfort Olive? Was that even possible? Moreover, how could she be gentle enough to rehabilitate August when she knew that the girl’s heat cycle would automatically earn her Lotte’s unyielding — if temporary — enmity? Most poignantly, how could she impress upon Chusi that Arturo needed to be obeyed without breaking the fiery little spark’s spirit?
“I am not a queenly wolf,” she said, her black-masked face contorting with a grimace of pain, “and I do not know queenly things.” The colorpoint female shifted restlessly through the course of another vicious cramp, then stilled. Motherhood had been the one facet of royalty that she felt absolutely comfortable with, but the threat of losing her children due to the stress of the move was too great. “They are not meant to be out until just before the next full moon, but they are like to tear out my side,” she whispered, her lips pressed tightly together. “If I lose them — if they die — but Olive — and Dagfinn — ” Her thoughts jumped from worry to worry, rendering her basically incoherent.
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Messages In This Thread
there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Lotte - March 20, 2017, 11:05 AM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Hemlock - March 20, 2017, 12:30 PM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Lotte - March 22, 2017, 11:22 PM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Hemlock - March 23, 2017, 12:12 AM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Lotte - March 23, 2017, 03:53 AM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Hemlock - March 23, 2017, 12:52 PM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Lotte - April 07, 2017, 09:46 PM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Hemlock - April 07, 2017, 10:42 PM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Lotte - April 08, 2017, 01:28 AM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Hemlock - April 09, 2017, 11:28 PM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Lotte - April 16, 2017, 07:50 PM
RE: there’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too - by Hemlock - April 16, 2017, 09:20 PM