Ravensblood Forest the one minute. the soldier's minute

It was coming together, slowly but surely. Teaghlaigh was forming and for the moment a break was given in his active recruiting to continue his work upon the caches and the border marking. After adding a particularly plump rabbit to a cache Arturo had decided to turn his focus upon the borders. He walked a patrol of what he'd already gotten marked, pausing every so often to refresh the scent markers, to reinforce The Family's claim upon this forest. He paused when he reached the place where the Takoda River fed into Ravensblood and neared it's bank, bowing his head to sate his thirst. He lapped at the cool, crisp water, feeling it's cool kiss on the way down. Already, the mornings, such as this one, were beginning to gradually become cooler and cooler. There was a chilling nip in the air, though it was kept bearable by the warming rays of the sun where they touched upon the Ceannasach's back. Autumn was upon them, though not in it's full swing, yet.

Arturo was aware that this was a pressure to Teaghlaigh's timetable. He was not overly concerned, yet, but already his mind was planning ahead for the winter months. Pack hunts would have to be conducted, and what they did not eat would have to be stored away in the caches. Isley's medicinal caches would have to be stocked and no doubt her store would become limited in the winter months, lest she could find alternative plants in winter to suffice for her stores. On that, Arturo was not knowledgeable as Riptide had taken his knowledge of medicines and poisons away when Arturo's mind had healed (and perhaps he hadn't since the gangster and the sea witch had been one in the same but Arturo didn't dare dig at that proverbial scar).

His head lifted from the river and his salmon pink tongue slid across his lips to collect the droplets of water that had rolled down his chin, missing the ones that splashed down upon his chest. Fiery, red-orange gaze swept across his surroundings before he turned and continued his patrolling and border marking routine, pausing to lift his leg and mark a particularly wide sequoia.

The soot-stockinged rogue had emerged from the shelter of the sequoias just before daybreak, her sights set upon the mountain over which the sun rose each morning. She wanted to fight the push of gravity against her limbs, wanted to feel the bite of the gravelly crags as they scraped her restless paws. A life of peace and pacifism was all well and good, but with little outlet for her fiery spirit, the battle-whetted bard found herself itching for a new challenge. The urge was intensely felt and immediately obeyed — Lotte was a creature of desire and intuition, and she had learned to let those impulses drive and guide her. Long, powerful legs quickened into an ambling trot, moving fluidly, the flex and snap of her large paws soundless as a ghost. She leapt nimbly along the mountain’s base, weaving her way amongst its cracked earth skirts, always moving vaguely upward — but nearby movement caught her attention and she veered recklessly off course, peering downward from her vantage point at a very familiar-looking pair of mocha shoulders edged in accents of vanilla latte.

Cocking her head to the side, “And what did that poor tree ever do to you, herra?” she called out playfully in a bright, mischievous mezzo-soprano several tones above her natural speaking voice. Lotte, so accustomed to playing roles when telling stories or entertaining her siblings, found herself slipping into Kitku’s skin; Chusi’s guardian had liked the wolf he’d met beside the sea, so she would be that wolf in his presence. The young bard could see no harm in continuing the ruse — she would play whatever part was required of her, whether it was specifically requested or self-inflicted. She reasoned that she was doing it for Donnelaith’s sake, never stopping to think that her supple legs would ever get caught in webs of her own making. Her steel-trap mind could house a whole cast of characters for her to pluck and play. Settling down into a sphinx-like position, she draped her coal-colored paws over the rocky outcropping she perched upon, looking coquettishly down at the fiery-eyed male with bright silver eyes.

Arturo's concentration was broken at the sound of a voice, mischievous from somewhere above him. Though his stream had ended a few seconds prior to her calling out to him, his leg did not immediately lower. There was something memorizing about the voice, something attractive and familiar despite that he'd only heard it once before. His leg lowered back to the ground, unabashed about it (for it truly wasn't that compromising), his fiery, red-orange gaze like two embers aflame against his black mask sweeping until he made her out on an outcropping before him. She was like a vision, coquettish and the picture of youthful elegance. Not that Arturo was old by any stretch of the imagination: he was just hitting his stride, reaching his prime. She was younger than him, however. He could not tell her exact age but that much he deduced. Did he mind? Of course not. Would it stop any advances he felt compelled to make? Definitely not. He looked from her to the tree for a moment, a low sneer leaving his lips before Arturo's gaze slid back to her.

“Nothing,” He replied briskly, offering her a famous (or infamous) charming smile not unlike the one he'd flashed her at Atoll's little party. “But it belongs to me; it and every tree in this forest, and therefore I must mark it, no?” He spoke lightheartedly though he was serious enough. He wasn't sure if Chusi had gotten around to extending that invitation he'd asked her to or not, and though the gangster had no qualms about being upfront about things he was not so ready to end this buoyant atmosphere between them and did not put his question to words yet. He moved towards the next sequoia, drawing him closer to her outcropping and rubbed himself against it, feeling the rough bark snag a few tendrils of his hair and tear them free. Of course scent rubbing wasn't as effective as urinating on it he was conscious that he was in the pretty bard's presence and was not about to hike his leg up despite that he was no longer made bashful by such things. He was too experienced and far too mature in his years to be bashful about anything anymore. Still, there was a level of politeness and principle to retain and Arturo was nothing if not a gentleman. A dangerous gentleman, perhaps, but still a gentleman.

Lotte was pleased — the recognition in his fiery gaze and the charming smile that shaped his roguishly handsome features bade her welcome, and her coal-tipped tail beat a swift tattoo against the mountain rock that surrounded her on all sides. Unfeigned surprise set her argent eyes aglitter when he spoke of his ownership of the forest — and though she watched him appraisingly as he sauntered to the next nearest sequoia, leaving rubbings of his hair and scent upon its trunk, she wondered inwardly what had caused him to leave his seaside home. Her season of awakening had not yet come upon her, and thus she could not regard Arturo with the need understood by more experienced females, but she enjoyed his attention and wished to experience it more fully. Thus, “Every tree, metsä kuningas?” she questioned, dabbling her paws in the air to set a physical motion to her figurative testing of the waters.

“Is it your desire to mark every tree?” she teased him playfully, rising to her full height and stretching her long, graceful legs as she walked parallel to the outcropping’s edge, intent on making her way down to him — eventually. The soot-stockinged hoyden was bold and carefree, but she was not stupid — she enjoyed teasing Arturo, but would not court his ire by testing his claim upon the wood. “I should leave you to your task and not continue to pester you so,” she ventured, letting regret color her tone, though her impish smile and warm eyes implied that she’d like nothing more than to do just that. Lotte was curious about the black-masked coywolf, for his hopeless affection toward Chusi and his suave gentlemanly demeanor had immediately captured her interest. She longed to ask him about his claim, about leaving Doe and the Blackrock warband behind, about his past, present, and future — she wanted his stories as much as she wanted his interest.

The scarfed bard looked surprise as Arturo made his bold announcement and the gangster was left to assume that Chusi had not yet gotten around to telling her, then. He regarded her with his well practiced poker face, allowing his curiosity to linger in the fiery spark of his gaze as she posed her question. “Every thing in this forest is mine,” The gangster amended with a husky purl. Of course his Teaghlaigh were their own but in some sense they were his wolves. His Family. Though indefinitely more important than any one territory but there was something that Arturo liked about encouraging his territorial nature. In allowing it to posses him and protect his claim and His Family. It had been so long since he'd felt territorial over anything and it breathed a new life into the gangster. Like Ceannasach was awakening from a long sleep. But it went beyond that in this moment. He recognized his desire to impress her. Also something he had not felt in a long time. He had not cared to impress anyone since ...Duana; but not even Duana had been able to spellbind him as quickly as the bard that rose, stretched and walked parallel to her outcropping's edge before him.

There was potential in that. And danger. Oh, but the gangster was tempted by trouble, allured by danger as he weaved plenty of it on his own. She was a minx, he considered, as he took in her impish smile as she teased him. He was quiet for a second before he offered her a twitch of his lips upwards. “Stay,” Arturo encouraged and implored of her. Not asking her to, but rather, giving her the permission. To stay. To draw nearer. To ask him questions that he very rarely answered. He was not so eager to let her slip away without getting to know her. “The borders will be here.” Besides, he wasn't the only one working on marking them. A few hours distraction would hardly hurt anything.

“A possessive man,” Lotte observed with frank approval, her voice pitched to carry and husky with a velveteen purr, growing all the more enamored with the gangster. Leadership and fatherhood seemed to suit him exceptionally — the fit of his new rank about his shoulders was easy and relaxed, and he wore it with a sleek suavity that she’d glimpsed only briefly the first night she’d met him. His was not the regal stoicism of the Neverwinter treelord — he was not a king but a gang leader, a father to blot out the names of other, lesser fathers, swaggering before her and adjusting his cufflinks with a casual smirk. She found it rather irresistible, if she was being completely honest, and all manner of stories and songs tangled her tongue in an unusual way. His smile, too, was devastating — the twitch of his lips was a gift that she hoarded rather selfishly, and she preened beneath his scrutiny, craning her neck to smooth her muzzle across the ashen cowl that ringed her throat. “Stay,” she repeated, splaying her forequarters in a playful bow that had her chin poking over the outcropping as her rear wriggled appealingly. “Here?”

She paused for emphasis, her small, triangular ears cupping forward. “Or do you wish me nearer, ovela päällikkö?” She ought to have called him kovanaama for his roguish ways, but she could not readily see him as a villain after the gentle way he treated Chusi.

The Donnelaith woman gave voice to her observation her tone laced with her blunt favor. Arturo took it in, analyzing it, contemplating it. Possessive? Was he? He'd always been a man who knew what he wanted, and had given an ultimatum to get it. Give it to me. Or else. Was it the same thing? Alas, the Ceannasach did not linger upon it, unwilling to let it distract him what was in front of him. Arturo watched as she slid her muzzle down the lighter fur that draped like an luxurious scarf 'round her throat. Her movements were elegant, alluring even if she did not intend for them to be. Appreciating beauty was no new thing for the Fearghal monarch but this was not the same. When he appreciated a woman's beauty he forgot about her in a few hours — out of sight and out of mind. The bard lingered in his thoughts like a decadent whisper, and though he could have easily passed it off as it being because she had been Chusi's guardian before him but ...that would have been a lie.

He watched intently as she repeated his word of granted permission to her, fiery gaze following the languid movement of her body as she lowered, her muzzle visible over the outcropping though not as visible as her wiggling rump as she verbally toyed with him. Here? She had asked him, no doubt meaning her outcropping she had been majestically resting upon when she'd initially called out to him. Followed soon after by the question of if he wanted her nearer. She called him something in a language that Arturo did not understand but he didn't linger upon it. As far as Arturo was concerned at the moment she could call him anything she so desired and he would not be fussed.

“Nearer." The gangster encouraged, the smoky reticence of his voice husky with the rumbling purl that invited her to tease him so and to close the distance between them while she did it. As far as Arturo was concerned if he was going to allow her to so sweetly torment him with her flirtations and teasing they might as well do it right.

“Nearer,” the kuningas korpit uttered succinctly, encapsulating a litany of suggestive encouragement in only two syllables. They rolled from his tongue like a curl of cigarette smoke, clouding Lotte’s vision and filling her lungs with a dizzying heat. She threaded her way down the slope without another word, large paws spread wide to accommodate the shift of stone and rubble until she could no longer hold her leisurely, deliberately comely pace and was forced to bounce the rest of the way down in a series of graceless, stuttered leaps. She came to a bumbling halt in a tangle of limbs, right-side up but decidedly disheveled, and the breath whooshed from her lungs in an exhilarating burst of low, husky laughter as she shook the debris from her fur with a saucy flick of her coal-plumed tail. Unperturbed despite this show of clumsiness before a wolf she admired, “Near enough?” questioned the soot-stockinged rogue when she was a few feet away from Arturo, vaguely teasing.

Breathing deeply of his scent and the sap-spiced woods that lay beyond, Lotte tipped her broad muzzle toward him with a coquettish smile. He was a fine specimen of a male, for all that his trim, svelte framework fixed Lotte with an indelible illusion of chubbiness by comparison. Her thick northerner’s undercoat and curvaceous musculature did not show to advantage beside him, but he did not seem to mind — and neither did she. She was accustomed to being perceived as a zaftig matron rather than the trimly-muscled maiden she truly was. “Ai,” she sighed, a note of wistfulness creeping unbidden into her smoky alto timbre. She longed to give him the truth of her identity, but it was too early on in their acquaintanceship to trust him so. “I wonder what manner of lord you will be, kuningas korpit,” she mused, “and what manner of followers you will lead.” She was curious about his pack and his intentions, wondering how all the pieces of the puzzle fit together.

Arturo watched undeniably pleased as she made her way down the slope she'd been perched upon, closing the distance that had been between them. The last leg of her descent was not as graceful as the first half, and Arturo felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips, a polite attempt to hide the mirth that bubbled in his chest and threatened to spill from betwixt his lips. He, gentlemanly as ever, managed to keep it contained to that small little smirk not desiring to earn her ire or inspire her humiliation. Yet she let out her own breathless laughter and he allowed his low laugh to join into the chorus of her own, trying to decide if the sound of their laughter combined was an unusual but not unpleasing melody or if, god he was losing himself to this ...infatuation (which could very well be the case). “You're welcome to come closer, if you desire,” He encouraged with a knavish purr but if this was all the closer she desired then it, was, of course, fine for the gentleman. As before, he left the decision to her.

Her question inspired that she was looking to find out what sort of place Teaghlaigh was destined to be and, charmed by her, Arturo had no intentions of withholding information. Besides, he had told Chusi she could invite Kitku to join them, and granted, he hadn't been very forthcoming with pack information to his young ward when he'd asked her to come away with him. Part of him felt true remorse (which indeed a rarity) at stealing her from this lovely woman's care but was it truly stealing when Chusi had wanted to go and the same invitation was extended to her? Arturo didn't think so.

“Teaghlaigh in the tongue of my natal pack means The Family,” He began, fixing her in his intense stare, gauging for her reaction, unaware that she could probably skillfully hide them from him if she so wished. “This will be the original's reincarnation. We are extremely tight knit, very territorial over our forest and hunting grounds,” His lips twitched upwards ever so slightly at the thought as he drew in a breath. “We take care of our own and in this we are ...secretive to an extent. Family business is Family business and anyone outside of The Family will not hear of it. My scouts and guardians are to be vague when inquired. My philosophy has always been take information without giving it when you can. To compromise The Family is to betray them and the punishment for it is death. There are only two rules in Teaghlaigh: The Ceannasach's Word is Law and The Family before Everything Else. Beyond that as long as they are not compromising The Family there are many freedoms.” Arturo liked to believe that in this respect while he could be rigid and strict that he was not a hard man to get along with.

“As for me,” His salmon pink tongue drew across his jowls once. “I am the Ceannasach — the sovereign. I am the law, the head of the Family.” The boss. Whatever word they wanted to pin him as. It all meant the same thing. He was the thinking force, the final decision, the leader they rallied behind. And though he wasn't overly sure what inspired him to let her in on this plan, aside from his enamorment he leaned forward slightly, the smoky reticence of his deep, accented voice lowered, “I am contemplating a red herring. Someone to be my decoy to those outside of The Family that do not know I truly rule, and to those who seek to join our ranks.” He murmured to her, strangely curious to hear her opinion on it, if she had one. He did not spend much time pondering why he wanted her consul especially since there was absolutely no guarantee that she would join Chusi and him here. As it was Arturo understood that this red herring ploy (especially given who would become his red herring) would be easily believable. It appeared to be a hard pill for pure bred wolves to swallow that a coywolf could be as cunning as his bastard father, and as much of a charismatic, natural leader as his "pure" mother.

I was not expecting this to happen so soon.
[crashes in and ruins everything]

“You’re welcome to come closer, if you desire.”

A soft and beseeching voice of reason tugged insistently at the yearling — you should not, foolish girl; you should not — and its claim over her was so complete it begged a physical manifestation of her introspection. One small, triangular ear twisted like a tulip toward the sun, betraying her hesitation; this close to him, she was not nearly as confident as she should have been, for she was not the Daggerspine come to administer his last rites with sugar on her lips and venom on her fangs. She was merely Lotte, in over her head for the first time, and starry-eyed before the Ceannasach — his pretty words, his commanding air, and his knavish mischief. “I desire,” she admitted with characteristic frankness, her argent eyes boldly searching his blood orange ones, and closed the distance fully — near enough to touch before she languidly drew to a stop. She offered no welcome of her own, though if Arturo were to stretch out a proverbial hand to her, she would likely have fumblingly dropped the reins into the dust at his feet — utterly at his mercy.

She listened as he spoke of Teaghlaigh — listened for her own purposes and no one else’s — listened with her mouth closed and her mind open — and selfishly she hoarded the precious information he poured into her hands like a river of rare diamonds. The pack he described was oddly fitting for the soot-stockinged rogue, a secretive and thief-thick collection of souls bound to one another by a loyalty more sacred than blood. “Ceannasach,” she whispered when he had finished, “Teaghlaigh.” The words were foreign and roughhewn as they stumbled from her lips, and she rolled the syllables with her tongue until they were made as malleable and familiar as Arturo’s name. She did not dare touch him now, she reflected with true regret, and drew a heavy breath as she began one of the hardest tasks she had faced — with the exception of the similar guilt and shame she would feel when she came clean to Doe. “Your philosophy is to take information without giving it,” she quietly intoned, her low, rich alto a shade darker than the pyrite of Kitku’s false mezzo-soprano, “but you have given me much.”

She regretted the dip in mood as much as the shattering of her mask, but there was nothing for it now. “Arturo,” she said, addressing him by name for the first time, “I have been unkind to you.” She tilted her head to regard him with a ghost of her former coquettishness, a rueful smile shaping her black-masked muzzle. “I am not a stranger to secrecy and subterfuge,” she told him. “In my home pack I was sometimes called Hämähäkki — the Spider. I am a weaver of stories and singer of songs, but I am also muoto vaihtaja — a shape changer.” She hesitated. “Kitku is not my name,” she said. “Kitku is…” She found herself tongue-tied, unable to look the coywolf in the eyes as she floundered and soldiered on. “In the past, I have only pretended to be Kitku if killing was necessary,” she explained succinctly. “I was not ordered to kill and do not know why I chose to bring her name here. My other masks were ill-fitting.” Her tone was remorseful and miserable, but he had no reason now to believe that her emotions were genuine. “My name — my name is Lotte. Lotte Ansbjørn.”

She awaited her punishment in silence — if the leader of the ravenwood wished her life, she would fight to keep it, but she kept her closeness to him to afford him a free pass of sorts to do with her what he would.

She drew nearer, speaking that she desired and his breath caught in his throat, hungry for her touch. It was powerful, it conquered him and rendered him utterly helpless to it. Yet her touch did not come, but her heat and perfume was present, washing over him. Weaving like a spell, memorizing the gangster further. His eyes sought hers, beseeching. She was close enough that all he had to do was extend his muzzle to touch it to her own but he did not. This, Arturo would not take. Admittedly, the Ceannasach was used to getting what he wanted, for he left nothing but an ultimatum in his wake. I want it, or else. Not this time. Not her. He wanted her of her own free will, not because he'd given the ultimatum, or in this case, took the advantage though it was there for him.

There was a drop in the mood, a one eighty swing so sharp that Arturo almost recoiled. It weighed heavily in the air between them as her soft admittance fell from her lips. He wanted to sever the connection, to claim that giving her the information had been a necessary evil of his attempts to recruit her but, by god, that was not the truth. And Arturo knew it. In this, he was compromising of The Family. He'd broken his own law and by all rights he knew what his punishment should be. With their knowledge he would fall to his knees before them and they would pass his judgment. Death. Teaghlaigh would fall before it had the chance to flourish and Chusi would, once more, find herself without a guardian. Perhaps he deserved it, he thought as she told her story. Her true story, evident by her hesitation and her inability to meet his imploring gaze. Yet, his death did not have to come so prematurely and this did not have to compromise The Family.

This was a trade of information, though whereas Arturo spoke to her in confidence he got the feeling that she felt something akin to shame. Yet, when his name fell from her tongue, so smooth and perfect he desired to hear it over and over. Just as he had exposed himself (and Teaghlaigh) to her, she was exposing herself to him. That took courage and because it fell directly from her lips he did not feel betrayed. She showed him courage and it did not lessen her spell on him any. He regarded the truth subjectively, thinking that it was a shame she would not join him. He would let her play her roles for Teaghlaigh, allow her to unleash her talents without shackles. Yet, this was not an unselfish desire and Arturo acknowledged it.

“Well Lotte Ansbjørn,” He murmured, testing her true name out on his tongue, ghosting forward a step, intent to draw his muzzle close to her ear, but withheld his touch. “You mentioned Kitku your assassin. Tell me,” He purled softly, “Do you plan to kill me?” He inquired, desiring to touch and be touched. He did not, at least not yet. Nothing changed. If anything he felt more intrigued by the bard. Her ability to play her roles so convincingly only made him want her more. For himself. For Teahlaigh. Even though he realized that with her admittance he might have very well been played a fool. Was her desire real? Or a fabrication to play her role?

Blurp. This post is very short. I am getting tired. X3

Bewilderment filled the girl’s luminous argent eyes as they fumblingly grasped for and held the Ceannasach’s fiery orange ones. Her small ears, bearlike but for their triangular shape, fanned uncertainly back toward her nape in shame — but when he uttered her name, they snapped forward upon her crown as if drawn by some powerful magnetic force. Eager. Selfish. “Arturo,” she whispered tremulously as he drew nearer still. His breath fanned hotly against her ear as he softly asked of her intentions, inciting a quiver that escalated sharply into a rolling wave of tremors that danced tantalizingly up and down her spine. “No,” she insisted feverishly, regaining a measure of her strength despite the new and dizzying waves of sensation that swam frantically through her bloodstream. “Never. I never planned that, kuningas korpit. It is only that Kaniini is too timid and Solene never smiles.” She summoned Dagfinn’s image and advice: “You’re as real as I am, Lotte. Remember the you that you are with me.”

“I am real,” she breathed, and put her faith in the Fearghal much as she would her brother, but for a completely different reason. Her broad muzzle trembled as she nuzzled the underside of his chin — a vulnerable place, but if he attacked her for her audacity, it would be no less than she deserved — and rubbed her cheek against his in a prolonged caress as she tipped her head back and bared her ashen throat to him. “Vannon, I did not plan to hurt you,” she vowed, yet wondering at the strange and unfamiliar warmth that raced with breakneck urgency through her blood and weighted her limbs with a slow heaviness.

Lotte whispered his name, her tone giving a soft quiver, detectable to the gangster. Yet, all he could focus upon was the sound of his name falling from betwixt her lips again. It was such a pleasant sound. His answer came in the feverish insistence of her whisper. No. She named off whom he believed to be her other characters — Kaniini and Solene — and the reasons why she had not used them. As Lotte spoke it, one was too timid and the other never smiled. He took a moment to process. He couldn't say he'd ever met anyone who had different personas they adopted for different situations and wolves and yet he found that her use of her mask didn't bother him. So that begged the question, “Were you afraid to show me the real you?” Perhaps it hadn't been that at all, but he couldn't begin to fathom her reasons. Perhaps it had only meant to be fun but regardless he would never begrudge her for it. The important part was that she had came honest to him.

She insisted that she was real, moments before he felt the quivering touch of her nose against the underside of his chin, nuzzling. “I believe you,” He murmured as she nuzzled him, lifting his chin to expose what was already vulnerable to her. If she wanted to all it would take was her teeth to his throat. She could so easily crush his jugular and strangle the life from him as he'd done to so many. “I see you, Lotte. I see the real you.” He assured her, the smoky reticence of his deep, low voice softened, rumbling through the strong column of his throat. He bore her no grudge, held her no malice. There was only his interest, his appreciation for her honesty and the inexplicable trust he felt.

The rub of her cheek against his, the caress was nice and the gangster reveled in her prolonged touch. He had yearned for it and it did not disappoint. Even though this meeting had taken a turn so very unexpected. Yet, the caress ended when she tipped her head back and in turn exposed her throat to him. There was a small clench of Arturo's jaw as he studied the elegant curve of her throat. It was a flawless addition to what made up the masterpiece of Lotte. Yet, the gesture was one that was unnecessary. Without giving his inner thoughts voice he mimicked her ministrations against his own chin, though Arturo followed the curve of her throat with his muzzle, pausing for a moment before he placed a brazen kiss there before he drew back, his fiery, red-orange gaze seeking hers. “I will not harm you Lotte.” He vowed to her. He was undeniably smitten with her though he probably should have severed it, forced her away and told her to leave him and Chusi be he could not. The unexplained hold that ...whatever was beginning to manifest within him for Lotte was too powerful and though he realized this might end with him the masochist, bearing punishment for his actions he had no desire to fight it.

There was no temptation for Lotte in the revealed hollow of Arturo’s throat. She did not wish to silence him by taking his life — quite the opposite, in fact. In that moment, as caught and bewildered and infatuated as her twin had been in the embrace of an older wolf, she inanely believed she’d have offered her life merely to hear the Ceannasach call her name — her true name! — and claim ownership of her person. She quivered, her songbird heart beating against the bars of its cage in a frenzy as a burning kiss was pressed to the warm curve of her throat. “Arturo,” she breathed, remembering belatedly the words he had spoken. “Thank you for believing me — for seeing me.” Her moonglow eyes readily met his fiery ones. Though by removing her masks she had already broken her word to the former leader of Donnelaith, Lotte found that she wished to protect his honor all the same. It would have been easy for her to blame her falsehood on her mission, but that would not have been fair to either Constantine or Arturo. “You asked me a question. To answer it, no,” she said honestly, “but also yes.” She pushed her broad skull blindly against the coywolf, butting him like an insistent cat, openly seeking his nearness. Her voice was muffled against the fur of his chest as she replied.

“I was not afraid until after,” she confessed. “When I was young, first learning the ways of the muoto vaihtaja, I became easily lost. I could not separate myself from my roles — when Kaniini feared, I feared; when Kitku rejoiced, I rejoiced.” She spoke with considerable slowness, weighing the honesty of every word. “My kaksonen, Dagfinn, could always find me.” A note of sorrow crept into her tone; she missed her twin so much! “The wolves of Blackrock Depths have julma maine — ” she rubbed the bridge of her muzzle against the male’s collarbone, thinking “ — reputation for wickedness,” she amended finally. “I wanted to be ready, so Kitku reared her head; yet when I met you, Chusi, and Doe, it was I who was bewitched, and I had already told the lie. Chusi calls me isosisko — older sister — out of fondness, but Doe and her Szymon must yet be told the truth.” Her small, triangular ears drooped as she drew back to look Arturo in the eyes. He was the first one she had revealed herself fully to, and although his reception had been kind, consternation yet lingered that the small, butterfly-like woman and her husband would not accept her so. “I am afraid now,” she murmured, crestfallen, “because I have not made a mistake such as this before.”

Their eyes met and Arturo found that he welcomed the assuage of her moonglow gaze against his aflame ember gaze. Eye contact was so very crucial for their species. It bespoke a challenge when a subordinate met the gaze of their superior, the touch of gazes could show vulnerability, desire, affection, respect, love. Her gaze meeting his did not spark the instinct of dominance for Arturo did not see Lotte as his inferior. No, the mummer was a queen among peasants, even if she did not know it. Instead, it inspired something even more archaic, something much deeper. The thought that he wanted to get lost in her eyes, that he would not mind waking up to them every day for the rest of his life was one that the gangster found terrifying. Dangerous, even. To flirt with danger and the very real prospect of heartbreak. “Thank you for letting me see you, the real you.” He murmured in return, knowing that she could have so easily let her charade continue with him none the wiser. Idly, it made him curious as to what had changed her mind.

Lotte answered his question, the press of her head against his chest, the feel of her breath stirring against the tendrils of fur upon his chest knocking him briefly breathless. While she spoke her confession to him, he was gratefully took the time to regain his bearings, to attempt to collect himself, the soft shivers her touch was eliciting down his spine were distracting to the man, as was the rub of her muzzle against his collarbone. The only clear conclusion was to admit that he was too deep into this already, so soon. She spoke of telling Doe and Szymon the truth, and expressed her fear to him in earnest, pulling back from his embrace to meet his gaze once more.

“Chusi adores you, Lotte,” And Arturo approved (but of course he did!). He offered it as consolation before he decided to broach the subject of her uncertainty. How the Depth wolves would take her deception. Though they were not his Teaghlaigh in the same way that those beneath his rule were, they were still family and he'd spent some time with them. Still, it was hard for him to deduce their reaction to her truth. “I can't say how they'll react,” He admitted after a few moments, regretful that he could not offer her an assurance that they, too, would understand. Worse, came the thought that she would face them alone and that they might seek to harm her should the conversation take a turn for the worse. It was not a thought he wanted to bear. “but it's not your fault Lotte. You did what you needed to, at the time. It was just business.” This was easy for him to say, though, given that he was helplessly smitten with the Ansbjørn woman. Arturo did not know the circumstances of why she'd done it, that she had been encouraged by her leader but the idea of letting her face the lion's den alone was not one that he entertained well.

“I understand your desire to come clean with them, but I don't want you to go alone,” He admitted. “I could come with you, if you wanted. For support,” He offered in a low murmur. “And if it does not go favorably I could talk it down. Doe isn't particularly fond of me but I have a standing alliance with their Leviathan, their Alpha, who is a friend.” Somewhere along the line Arturo had begun to think Skellige as a friend for the sea titan was the closest thing he had to one, admittedly. If her standing as one of Deirdre's wolves was not enough to assuage violence, if it went that vicious path, then perhaps Teaghlaigh could contain the worst case scenario.

I wrote replies to all of Lotte and Coelacanth’s threads this morning and my computer ate every single one of them.
Hence, this will suck and I have no will to make it better. I am sorry. ♥

As a small cub, Lotte had made a game of pushing her body against her father or mother, oversized paws digging furrows in the earth as she attempted to topple them over. She had been a willful child despite her sweet nature, and many of these shove-o’-war matches had ended in Lotte falling asleep with all four legs outstretched, her head, neck, and spine sprawled crookedly against Aksel or Dorthe — usually after crying out, “En ole väsynyt!” Over time, this odd behavior had manifested itself in other ways; in times of fear or distress, she often butted and rubbed her head and shoulders against her brothers and sister, finding comfort in the contact like an overzealous cat. It was this impulse that had driven her to press so brazenly against the Ceannasach — and as he spoke of accompanying her to speak with Szymon and Doe, Lotte felt the need of it again. She could not find it in her heart to tell the coywolf that, come what may, she had to make her confession alone. “Arturo,” she murmured, oddly hesitant. Words tumbled over themselves, tangling in her throat, and she smiled up at him with her muzzle faintly parted — laughing at herself.

He was a dangerous man. It was on the tip of Lotte’s tongue to ask him to come away with her, explore the mountain she had set her sights upon before her sights had settled with fierce intensity upon Arturo himself. Still more alarming was the fact that there was part of her young brain already trying to rationalize that one forest was very much like another forest, and surely the witch queen would not harbor any ill will toward Lotte even if she did choose to become part of Arturo’s Family. You have your own family, foolish girl, she chided herself, knowing it to be true. What of Lærke? What of Dagfinn? They had always cautioned their impulsive sister about taking more time to make decisions — and her decision to let Kitku take the reins had gotten her into quite a mess already. Before making any rash promises, “I must think of how to tell them,” she admitted, unable to keep from stepping forward again, her intention to nuzzle once more against the fiery-eyed gangster’s collarbone. “I am not ready yet.” Her words were carefully honest; she knew already that she could not take Arturo with her to make her confession, which was another subject entirely. Still, she didn’t know how she wanted to go about it or how much she wanted to confess. That would take some time — and thinking, for Lotte, was always better done on the move.

With all the grace of a grizzly bear trying to walk a tight rope in a snowstorm, Lotte changed the subject. “I never sang for you,” she murmured against his chest, recalling that she’d composed a verse for him at the Den Night and had simply tucked it away for another time. She then drew back, eyeing him teasingly. “I sang for Chusi and for Doe, but not for you — yet.”

He felt the feline-akin motions of her skull and muzzle rubbing against his chest and though it was an usual form of touching he obliged her. It wasn't as if he minded. His name was hesitant as it left her lips and though idly he wondered if she realized it the smile she offered him stole his breath from his lungs. The small, quiet breath he took was greedy, drawing in the mixture of their scents so he might imprint it upon his memory like a favorite cologne. Musk and sandalwood mixed with the most decadent hint of vanilla, something soft and pleasant. Her admittance drew a sage nod from the gangster, who allowed her to step towards him once more, reveling in the touch of her muzzle against his collarbone.

Arturo didn't press and allowed her to change the subject, the breath from her murmured words against his fur and flesh causing a soft shiver to slither down his spine. It nearly distracted him from listening to her actual words. Yet, her following words spared him the need to ask her to repeat. She had yet to sing for him, it was true, and he so loved her voice. Though there was a slight fear that swelled within his chest. He believed that hearing her sing for Chusi and Doe at the Den Night had been the initial cause of his bewitchment to her. There were undeniable feelings blossoming for her already and Arturo did not see the harm in allowing her to sing for him. He wanted to hear it. How much more deeper could he fall? he wondered.

“I feel as if I should be offended that I was not the first you sang for,” He teased her, his accented voice deep like the rumble of thunder on a gathering storm, but the tease to mimic her own was very evident in the light, buoyant way in which he spoke. Evidenced by the smile that had begun tugging at the corners of his lips. Just for her. “but they say you should save the best for last,” The gangster jested with a chuckle and a smooth rise and fall of his svelte, albeit broad shoulders. “So sing for me, my beautiful nightingale.” He purled in a whisper and an encouraging and slightly mischievous glint to his eye(s). He wasn't sure the origin of his sudden nickname for her but as it felt right the articulate gangster allowed it to flow off his tongue like honey.

“I feel as if I should be offended that I was not the first you sang for.”

Catching the tip of her tongue coyly between her incisors, Lotte smiled playfully up at the Ceannasach with an unrepentantly mischievous glint of moonbright eyes; “no, Turo,” she begged, her warm, rich alto coyly beseeching. Though she spoke as if in jest, the truth remained: she did not wish to spark ire within the Fearghal. The hush of his deep, accented timbre danced fingertips of delight up and down the soot-stockinged girl’s spine, and there was a note of seriousness to her following statement, impish though it was. Nightingale. “Before you, I am likely to forget the lyrics,” she said, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. She drew breath to sing, and then — and then —

— and then she did forget them. Every line, melody and all.

Humming softly to herself under pretense of warming up her voice, Lotte grasped furiously for words and feverishly attempted to string them together in lyric form; the utter failure she experienced was new and unpleasant, though her black-masked face remained a mask of serenity. Setting aside her trepidation, she drew a deep, calming breath — and though it was not Arturo’s song as Lotte had written it, the right song found her: an Irish lullaby. She adapted the lyrics, changing the trademark “toora-loora-loora” to a fondly sung, “turo-luro-luro.”

“Over in Killarney
many years ago,
me mother sang a song to me
in tunes so sweet and low,

just a simple little ditty
in her good old Irish way
and I’d give the world if she could sing
that song to me today:

turo-luro-luro
turo-luro-lie
turo-luro-luro
hush now, don’t you cry.

turo-luro-luro
turo-luro-lie
turo-luro-luro
that’s an Irish lullaby.”

She finished the second verse and drew the song to completion, and when the last note died away she merely looked up at the Ceannasach with a curious expression, unabashedly seeking his opinion.

The gangster had not meant his words to be taken serious by the mummer and if not for her playful smile he might have considered that she had taken them as such as she made to beseech him, using a nickname that he'd only ever heard from the lips of his young ward and Qilaq. Would it have been anyone else but Lotte calling him Turo (with the exception of the children, of course) he would have raised issue. Yet, he enjoyed the sound of his nickname spilling from the lips of the woman that had utterly bewitched him. She admitted, with sudden timidity that before him she was likely to forget the lyrics. Arturo offered her an encouraging smile. Did he truly have that affect upon her? Arturo couldn't help but wonder. Alas, the gangster would never know as she drew in a breath and her melodious voice rose in song.

The gangster listened, spellbound by her beautiful voice as it flowed all around him. His tail waved absently behind him, ears cupped forth, attentive atop his skull as she sung for him, catching his nickname in the lyrics with a warmth that blossomed in his chest; and when Lotte finished she looked to him openly. “If I could listen to you sing every day for the rest of my life I'd be a happy man,” Arturo mused with a soft, meaningful chuckle. “That was beautiful, Lotte.” He murmured sincerely, ghosting toward her a step and though he deigned to embrace her once more (finding that he very much enjoyed the feel of her touch) he did not make to breach the bubble of personal space between them without her consent.

The Fearghal’s attractively accented timbre fell with favor upon Lotte’s waiting ears, and an answering smile shaped her streamlined muzzle, broadening when the Ceannasach drew nearer still. She was disappointed in her inability to sing the verse she’d meant to sing, but she reasoned that her opinion of Arturo had changed considerably since their first meeting — so considerably, in fact, that even now her busy mind was writing and rewriting, flipping through dictionaries in every language she knew to select the truest, most perfect words for each line.

The smoke-and-shadow female felt her breath catch in her throat as she awaited Arturo’s touch, and when it did not come immediately — he was an odd mixture of gentleman and gangster that was as alluring as his accent — she boldly pressed forward, rubbing her shoulder, rib cage, flank, and hip against his chest in a slow curve, her coal-plumed tail teasing along his jawline as she made a complete circuit and stopped where she’d begun: facing him squarely with a saucy smile upon her black-masked visage. Then, without speaking, she stretched, hindquarters sloping down in an exaggerated tilde to her splayed forelimbs; she looked up obliquely at the coywolf, admittedly not recognizing the gravity of his earlier admission, and darted forward playfully, snapping harmlessly at air before spinning and bounding a pace or two away. Lotte had not yet reached her majority, and the tickly feeling her in her gut was an inexplicable, exhilarating thing. Her inexperience filed it away as a desire to play with the older male, and she indulged in her whims without shame. Chase me, begged the soot-stockinged rogue without words, argent eyes flashing.

Arturo drew in his breath as he watched Lotte close the distance between them that he'd left, and let it out in a low exhale that lingered a strange mix of want and contentment. His breath rose and fell in a quick, shallow exhale as the touch of her shoulder turned into the press of her ribcage against his chest, flank and then her hip moved against him slowly, agonizingly as she circled him. It was the tease of her tail against his jaw that drew forth the low rumble from somewhere deep in his chest. A feral, instinctual communication that bespoke his pleasure at her touch, as she teased him. It might have made him feel alive in a way he had not felt in a very long time (and still in a different way then Duana had drawn him in), might have set him on edge but it was a torture he'd gladly take over and over again. There was an undeniable physical attraction to Lotte but it was more than that. He, himself, did not fully understand how he'd lost himself so completely to her. How every other woman was a dull moon in comparison to the bright sun that Lotte had so quickly became to him. Arturo did not believe in fate, nor divine intervention. Yet...even if it was unrequited and even if it wasn't mutual there was a resounding feeling of rightness — like he'd been searching for something his entire life and that restless desire had ceased the moment she'd walked into his life. It was cheesy, but he knew it to be true in the marrow of his bones. Regardless of how, or why, she'd captivated him and his intrigue and he had no desire to fight it.

His head bowed as she took to a playful stance before him, and Arturo watched as she darted towards him and snapped at the air playfully before, quick on her feet, the mummer darted away. The gangster ghosted forward a step, reading what her eyes silently communicated to him. It had been a long time since Arturo had played (not counting Chusi's lesson because it was educational) and the last time he'd been enticed to play with a woman full grown it had resulted in his children. Yet, this was different. Lotte was yet pure, untouched by her estrus cycle and thus Arturo's desire to indulge her was of his own free will as opposed to the saccharine temptation of hormones and feral call of archaic instincts. She wanted him to chase her and so he would.

The Ceannasach stalked forward, ears cupping forth atop his skull before they slicked back and the gangster offered her a devilish grin. His muscles pulled taunt as he prepared to launch himself in pursuit of her when she fled.

The smoke-and-shadow rogue felt electric — it was something she couldn’t explain despite her love for words and their nuances. Every sense seemed tuned to a finer pitch, their frequencies all set on one station: Arturo. The echo of his rumbling growl continued to replay itself within her mind, repeating and repeating, the vibration it engendered blossoming out through her athletic musculature and manifesting itself in the vigorous lashing of her tail and impatient quiver in her paws. It was like and unlike being on the battlefield or engaging in a particularly dangerous mission. She felt alive — and when the Ceannasach stalked toward her with his ears trained attentively on her every movement, a devilish grin curving his mouth, she jumped involuntarily. The skipping of her heart glided into a rabbit’s breakneck pace, and though there was a fluttering centered in her gut that would not quiet, she set it at the back of her mind and gave herself over to the game.

Mindful of the need to remain close to Teaghlaigh while selfishly desiring to keep Arturo’s attention completely to herself, Lotte wheeled and began weaving her way through the treeline at the edge of the territory. Broad, surefooted paws put on speed that seemed to contradict her zaftig appearance; Lotte didn’t look particularly aerodynamic, but she was as fast as a whip.

She jumped as he prowled forth though whether it was the action or his grin he did not know. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he had truly scared her but before the guilt could seize him and put a swift end to her contagious playfulness within him he watched her wheel around and take off into the thick of the trees. Lotte was surefooted (though this did not surprise the gangster in the slightest) and she was nimble. He was impressed as she darted out of his sight. He was quick to follow after her, indulging in her game with a soft laugh upon his lips. He was tall but svelte and even though she managed to evade him when he thought he was catching up to her. Yet still, he pursued, even when he was not sure to what end. It didn't really matter. All that had mattered was she had wanted him to chase her and he hadn't even fought the impulse to give into her whims. Whether he sought to impress her by showing that he could be more than just the serious gangster nearly everyone knew him as, or because he was wholly wrapped around her paw he didn't deign to delve to deep into.

The fleet-footed rogue darted through the forest with ease, winding sinuously through the underbrush — and when she arrived at a clearing that marked the edge of Teaghlaigh’s borders, she whirled and dropped into a defensive crouch. Her coal-tipped tail flagged the air mischievously, but she didn’t stay in that position for long; half a breath later, the energy that pounded in her blood had her rearing up like a wild filly, settling back on her powerful haunches with forelegs outstretched as though she could catch the Ceannasach in her arms — and perhaps she would, if Arturo found himself unable to stop. Lotte braced herself instinctively, tensing for just an instant just before she forcibly relaxed her muscles — her forays in battle had taught her that there was merit to being boneless, especially given the amount of fluff-and-stuff the Enok Tundra Ansbjørns were blessed with.