The forest was alive with new scents, and Lotte busied herself with excavating dens and padding the caches to provide what succor she could. Today, though, she was busy doing something else entirely.
It surprised the smoke-and-shadow tundra native that trees needed to be cared for, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. She realized her error only after she’d committed it, and sat staring at the top-heavy young sequoia whose exposed roots promised a lovely living space — if the inhabitant wanted to be smothered and crushed when it inevitably fell. It tilted at a dangerous angle, the winter thaw having softened the earth beneath it into muddy slush, and Lotte bore testament of its threat: she, too, was covered in mud and wispy white root tendrils. Her instinct was to fell it, but no matter how ardently she threw her weight against it, it wouldn’t budge. She’d heard that telltale creak, though — the tree was fated to meet a sad, horizontal end.
It was too early, Lotte felt, to wake the Family and request their aid. Anyway, Olive and Dakarai were in no shape to help her knock down one of the great arboreal giants. The idea of having Arturo help her had its own appeal — she did so love to see the suave and svelte Ceannasach dirty and ruffled, after all — and she turned, trotting purposefully through the shadowed weald, only to be intercepted a short time later by a classic beauty of a wolf. Her bright pelage was a deep, overcast steel-blue with undertones of fog and mist — it amused Lotte that her own pelt could have been painted with the same palette, and she dipped her muzzle cordially, her warm alto rich and mellifluous in the morning calm. “Rakeet, comrade,” she murmured, her moonbright eyes drifting appraisingly over the regal creature with natural, but not overt wariness.
The differences between them were evident: the gloss of the Comhlach’s fur cast a striking contrast to the Banríon’s matte — and presently soil-caked — pelt; Lotte was visibly taller and broader; and the Raurc colleen possessed a certain polish that Arturo’s mate lacked. Lotte’s first impression of Lia Raurc was one of immediate liking, and her mud-flecked mouth tipped up at the corners in a bright smile as she said, “We have not met — I am Lotte Ansbjørn Fearghal. Who are you, sininen veri?”
She curses herself for the sudden stuttering halt. Truly, she is surprised by the woman approaching. For a moment she thinks it to be a ghost, a mirror image of herself.
They are not unlike.
The woman canting her way towards Lia moves like an ethereal being in the woods, a nymph. She looks like Lia; slender build and limited musculature, coat like that of an angry sea, and as beautiful as everyone had always claimed Lia to be.
Upon closer examination differences can be discerned. This woman is taller and a bit broader if still lithe. Her coat takes on a deeper tint, leaning towards a black-blue like a brewing storm rather than the silver glint of the doyenne. She is dirtier as well, coat turned dull and muted with it.
A heartbeat passes and Lia nearly remains frozen as she is by the familiar gut-wrenching feeling the raven had brought about in her. A premonition, yet not a warning.
She is Banríon.
Lia continues towards Arturo's woman, her crown dipping low with respect.
The words are unfamiliar to her but their intent is clear. Lotte is friendly and she is smiling.
"I am Lia Raurc," the belladonna answers with another tilt of her head, studying the wife of Ceannasach curiously but not unkindly.
There was a deep, visceral sense of satisfaction that hummed through Lotte’s bloodstream at the woman’s gesture of respect — she had forgotten that she was Banríon within Teaghlaigh’s borders — and she canted her broad muzzle in turn. “Welcome to Teaghlaigh, Lia Raurc,” the silver-tongued bard intoned warmly, her coal-colored tail waving genially. “Do you have any experience with trees?” It was an odd question to ask, but Lotte’s black-masked visage was completely serious. The smile that caught at her lips was friendly without being humorous or sardonic, but just to clarify that she was indeed asking for a reason, “I was born in the northern tundra — there are no trees that can survive those conditions — and I think I may have broken one of Arturo’s sequoias by trying to dig a den beneath its roots. When I started, it was winter and the earth held strong, but now everything is mud and slush.”
Chuckling warmly, she confessed, “I tried to knock it down the rest of the way — it growled at me and shook above me, and I thought it would crush me — but I could not do it alone. Maybe it would be better to reinforce it, but I do not know enough about trees to know whether it would put down new roots, or whether the thaw will continue to weaken the ground beneath it.”
Her head dips again in gratitude. Pale eyes move from Lotte to the bloodied trees, straining for the tops clustered together far above her head.
"Not much in the way of moving them," Lia answers simply. The sheer amount of words overwhelms her, the colleen does not think she could ever speak so much at once.
"Perhaps it would be safer to push it over as you said. I could help," she offers earnestly.
Lia is not muscular; she is built for speed and distance rather than brute force. Yet, the small Raurc has a will as strong as any. The tree will fall.
I’m so sorry for the wait, Genevieve! ♥
A bright, fierce grin lit Banríon’s mud-spattered, black-masked visage as she regarded her comrade with affection. There was nothing tentative about the soot-stockinged rogue, and she leaned forward with a quick, impulsive arc of her broad muzzle, her aim to buffet the Raurc woman’s shoulder in a gesture of blithe camaraderie. “I would be happy for your help, sininen veri,” she accepted graciously, turning as her broad paws snapped into an easy, rollicking gait. Assuming that Lia was following, she returned to the site of her unintentional destruction.
“You see?” she huffed, her argent eyes slitting in disappointment as she regarded the bleeding sentinel. What Lotte had intended to make a den was a reduced to a sad disarray of mud and slush, and some of the young tree’s roots poked above ground. The trunk itself was tilted at an awkward angle, but Lotte could not push it down alone. She circled around to the trunk and braced her forelegs against it, but though it creaked ominously, it would not fall.
Sorry to have taken so long!
Lia strains, muscles contracting and spasming with the combined efforts of pushing the tree. A grimace stretches across her face as it finally falls.
The Raurc watches Banríon with a worried expression, wondering if perhaps she has hurt herself.
Lotte shows no outward signs of injury, her usual spunk shining through.
"I could eat," Lia gives a wolfish grin, one side of her mouth quirking up in a satisfied smirk.
She does as Banríon asks, scrabbling atop the freshly fallen tree with far less grace than her counterpart. She nearly slips several times, covered in mud as she is.
The tree bears her weight with a soft groan but little shifting. Lia glances to Lotte for approval before hopping down, eager to wash up and eat.
Finally, a female with strength behind her wiles!
Lotte nods approval as the tree holds Lia’s weight and seems to remain sturdy but for a weak groan of protest. “It will stand,” she proclaims with satisfaction. “To the river?” she asks, stretching into a slow, leisurely walk before opening up to a ground-eating trot with Lia in tow. “I am eating for many,” she explains, making mention of the cubs that pull and tug so ardently at her insides. She beams at the Raurc female. “I am so glad you have come,” she confides in the girl with a sway of her tail. As they near the riverbank cache, Lotte pulls out a chilled rabbit and nods to Lia to take her pick as well. The soot-stockinged rogue settles comfortably on the bank, tearing into her meal with gusto and expecting Lia to do the same.