The Sentinels see no evil, speak no evil

The smoke-and-shadow rogue had no intention of quailing before Donnelaith’s beta — a wolf she found distantly familiar, for Deirdre and Lærke had spoken lavishly of the wolves who made their home within the sequoias. She correctly surmised that the wolf who demanded she show herself was Constantine, for his fiery eyes, swarthy mask, and stocky construction matched Lærke’s description of the man. With two fluid steps, she materialized from her pocket of shadow and faced her superior squarely — small, triangular ears cupped respectfully against her skull, carriage and head lowered, argent eyes appropriately averted. Her bottlebrush tail, though not clamped to her abdomen, curved like a scythe so that its coal-dipped tip curled submissively between her hocks. “You may not,” she intoned quietly, her rich alto mild and warm, “but the shadows are my friends, herra.” She was not a wolf of these wilds and saw no point in pretending to be. She was different — and she did not desire to conform.

Still, Lotte noted the way her agemate’s broad muzzle dipped to protect his throat and the stiffness of his stance, and sought to placate. “Please forgive my blunder,” she uttered with new formality, casting a beseeching smile toward the dark wolf without directly meeting his eyes; “I am Lotte Ansbjørn, sister to Lærke. Your johtaja, Aria, offered me a place among these woods. I meant no harm in hiding from you, herra.” She swept him a low, elegant bow, one foreleg curling beneath her while the other outstretched, then resumed her previous stance with respectful slowness.