Neverwinter Forest dreamers of day are dangerous men

Lotte approaches on sneakthief-silent paws, her matte fur and grayscale palette making her approach utterly undetectable. It is when she is still yards away from her son that she pauses and deliberately cracks a twig with one broad paw, a lioness-like chuff rolling from her smiling maw. Drawing a deep breath, she purses her lips and blows — and the current of air that streams from her lips breaks impossibly through the fog and surrounds the young soturi in a glowing ring. “Rakeet and happy first birthday, dear one. You have become a great soturi and muodonmuuttaja, Roarke,” she intones with solemn pride, unable to keep herself from using the name he was given at birth. “I see you took your good looks from your mother, but your eyes are more like your Uncle Dagfinn’s.” Of all of her children, Roarke is the one who most resembles his mother and Ceallach is the one who most resembles his father. Eirlys and Mallaidh are the ones who are a bewitching amalgam of both parents: the former with her father’s warm tones and her mother’s stockier musculature; the latter with her mother’s smoke-and-shadow coloration and her father’s streamlined build.

Lotte proves herself to be as tactless as ever as she bluntly questions Roarke the same way she questioned Mallaidh: “Why do you call yourself Drogon, son of mine, son of Arturo?” She wonders if her children are forever creating new identities for themselves because of their theatrical mother — and then she remembers Arturo’s lapse into Witchdoctor and Hemlock’s former life as Isley. Oh. She guesses she can’t really blame them, all things considered. Drawing a breath so deep it pains her, she finally asks the question she’s been harboring in her heart for months. “Roarke Altaïr Fearghal, have you truly forgotten your äiti, who looked for you every day? Have you forgotten this?” She sings the tule kotiin call, a wild, undulating howl meant to pitch across miles and miles of tundra.