Dawnlark Plains a bird in the hand is worth a lotte in the bush

There was snow.

Day had missed snow - there'd been a lot of it where he'd grown up, and his father before him, and his before him and so on. The point was, he was bred for it and born into it, and his coat had never gotten the memo that he was now out of it, for the most part. Summer had been awful, when he hadn't shed his body weight in fur like everyone else. And he was glad that it'd never happened to him before when he'd been living at hom in Alaska, but now? It was getting a little too hot.

But here, he could run and jump and play and hardly feel the heat ; when he rolled, it caked his coat in a thick layer - like a portable air conditioner! Day laughed as he gamboled like a pup in the thick layer of white that coated the ground, only to become stock-still when he saw an unkindness of ravens doing the same thing a few yards away. They'd observed him warily at first, but when it became clear that he hadn't noticed them, they'd gone about their business.

Well. He'd noticed them, now.

“You’re as real as I am, Lotte.”

The game had seemed fun — and harmless, and innocuous, and easy — at first. Lotte was by no means an adrenaline junkie, but the promise of action and excitement after the lackadaisical hum of day melting into day melting into day had been irresistible. Kitku had reared her head again — incorrigible, mischievous Kitku, who had all of Lotte’s coquettishness and wit but none of her mercy. Now, ambling across unfamiliar ground — and skirting several claimed territories in the process — Lotte asked herself why. Under Lærke’s capable command, his littlest sister’s personas had become beloved weapons — Kaniini was often used to distract or infiltrate; Solene was a supporting character meant to subtly influence and advise; but Kitku was a killer. “Kitku — !” was an oath or a plea or an incredulous question gasped from bloodied lips and severed by the cessation of breath — argent eyes could be very cold, sometimes — when there was absolutely no other way to reach the desired result.

Those who had known Kitku did not live.

Those who now knew her could not live.

There were several wolves who knew Lotte as Kitku the Daggersteel — and the thought of killing any of them was so abhorrent to her, bile rose up in her mouth to be spat bitterly from her frowning lips: “Miksi? Tyhmä, tyhmä tyttö!” She was known by some as Hämähäkki — the Spider — for her ability to weave stories like webbing around friends and foes alike. This was the first time she had gotten caught in her own trap, though, and she did not like it. Whether she should blame it on her improvisational mishap, her soft heart, or the wolves who had bewitched her so was unbeknownst to the soot-stockinged hoyden. She knew only that she needed to be far away from the sand, the sea, and the salt-crusted sequoias until she had each mask securely in hand once more.

“Remember the you that you are with me.”

“Mutta emme OLE yhdessä!” cried the girl in despair, casting her silver eyes — warm and anguished, Lotte’s eyes — heavenward before looking miserably down at her coal-colored toes. It was at this point that she realized the powder melting under her pads was snow and not sand — and in front of her was a mottled gray wolf whose pelage was as thick and lustrous as Lotte’s own. His attention seemed focused on an unkindness of ravens who were lolling about as gleefully as he was, and Lotte was so shocked at finding company in the midst of her accidental soliloquy that all of her masks clattered to the ground at her feet. A smile played about her lips — no matter her mood, joy was always readily within the girl’s grasp — as she observed his speckled underbelly, stars of dove-gray dappling dusty cream. “Rakeet, comrade,” she intoned in her low, rich alto.

“Remember the you that you are with me.”

“I am Lotte.”

He was pretty intent on those birds, but even he couldn't miss the unguarded sound of another's approach - certainly not the sound of her voice, despairing in another language. His ears quirked toward the sounds long before she came into view, and by then, the birds were all but forgotten. Day wagged his tail as he felt her eyes on various parts of his body, and distantly, he found himself thinking he must've been something of a strange sight. Most of the snow had been shaken out of his fur, but not all, and more than that, the way he was sprawled out right now probably wasn't too dignified - Somehow, the idea that she might think he was posing for her didn't bother him too much.

Because, well, maybe he'd always been drawn to women with darker fur or maybe there was just something in the water, but she was a sight for sore eyes. Lotte, he reminded himself, said her name was Lotte...

"Pleasure," he said at last, having still not gotten around to rearranging his limbs. " 'm Day," he added, glancing back toward where the birds were still playing. There was a thorny bush between them and the birds that offered little in the way of cover, but seemed to be barrier enough for the birds to feel brave. Day was feeling pretty brave himself. His eyes went back to Lotte, and wagged his tail again when he saw that she was still there. "Well, what're you doing up there?" he teased, tipping his nose toward the snow beside him. "Get down - they'll see you!"

The stranger’s voice was a pleasure to behold, and Lotte brandished her coal-plumed tail in a flurry of exuberant goodwill as she openly watched the wolf and not the ravens he appeared so interested in. “The pleasure is mine, Day,” she returned, her low, rich alto colored with warm amusement. At his urging she hunkered down beside him, her rogue’s musculature allowing her smoke-and-ink frame to flow like living shadow, swift and silent. She didn’t question his command, supposing that he must have had his reasons for not wanting the birds to catch sight of him. Soot-stockinged forelegs stretched out as she lay on her deceptively plush torso and pushed at the snow, a blissful sigh conjuring a tiny cumulus cloud of her own making in the frosty autumn air. She mimicked his posture then, rolling onto her back and settling her head upon the pillow she’d created for herself with another soft huff of crystallized air. “Are they your loyal followers, myrskypilvi?” she questioned, joking clumsily. “Or are you omega instead? Is that one your johtaja — your alpha?” she pressed, gesturing with one inky paw at random. “The one with the beak.”

The birds were mostly forgotten as the dark wolf first took him in and then settled down beside him. His eyes flicked toward the birds as she pointed, but he saw only a vague blur of black before turning his attention back to her.

Perhaps his luck with Amber had gotten to his head. He'd certainly been more willing to put himself out there since meeting her. If someone had been charmed by him once, it was likely to happen again, right?

Still, even Grayday was beginning to think he was pushing his luck as he offered Lotte his most rougish grin. "That's me - lowly omega," he intoned, solemn voice at odds with his wild-eyed expression. "If we're too loud they'll hear us, and they'll want you all to themselves," he went on, voice hushed and throaty as he spoke directly into her small, pointed ear. "Can't help themselves - like pretty things too much."

And yeah, he definitely had a type, now - but Lotte was kind of extraordianary in her own right. Maybe it was her smoky eyes or the alluring puff of her fur, or maybe Day just liked a woman with a sense of humor. Didn't matter - whatever it was, he liked it. Liked her.

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. ♥ x__x;

Despite the multifaceted way Lotte was accustomed to looking at and interacting with the world, at her core she was a young girl and easily charmed. Her bold spirit and natural playfulness set flirtation readily within her reach, and she had used that flirtation to disarm and to infiltrate as befit her role. Still, she was no stranger to honest attraction — a fact that would have made Dagfinn roll his wintry eyes in weary agreement, for it was his ears into which she whispered all of her imaginings. Arturo was ever-present for Lotte in the way that Amber was for Grayday, but the girl saw no harm in hunkering down beside the thickly-furred wolf and peering through the bough of branches at his apparent overlords. He complimented her, and a ripple of a giggle spilled from her lips as his deep timbre tickled the fur of her small, triangular ears. She warmed to his good humor with an impish smile.

At this close proximity, she could see the cloudiness of his eyes — coinlike slivers of rime filmed the burnt umber beneath — but the spark of roguish mischief therein could not be denied. She reasoned that he could see well enough if he could make out the birds and kept her thoughts to herself, feeling it would be rude to make his oddity a topic of conversation. “Should I take orders of a lowly omega?” she asked in a mock-affronted whisper, her argent eyes widening as if the very thought of it was deplorable. “You do not know me, herra. I happen to be none other than Pörröinen Tassut Kuningatar — a ruler from a faraway land — and I think you ought to stage a kapina against your betters. Who are they to rule you so?”

Day's ears quirked as more playful banter poured from her mouth. He had to admire her eloquence - he had trouble enough with one language, and she seemed to slip seemlessly between her two. He didn't have much to say back to all her pretty talk, but the answer he did have would work well enough.

"Well, when you put it that way," he said, scrambling to his paws but keeping his belly still low to the ground. "Will you help me take these featherbrains down?"

But Day did not wait for an answer. Instead, he barrelled straight through the bushes and charged toward the unkindness, tongue lolling out as they all took wing. Angry caws assailed his ears, but Day was still having a gay old time romping through the snow once more. When the unkindess was gone, he turned his attentions toward the smokey woman once more, strutting to show his improved status.

"How do you like that?" he asked with exaggerated triumph, attempting to sneak a kiss onto her cheek as he drew near.

Bounding to her paws in one fluid motion, Lotte intended upon pledging her readiness for battle, but “I — ” was as far as she got. In a flash, the dusty steel-and-cream freight train crashed through the underbrush and obliterated the winged gathering, leaving only a flurry of feathers and a cacophonic chorus of raucous croaking. He circled back toward her with a swagger in his step, his muzzle darting brazenly forth to steal a kiss — and Lotte turned her head regally to the side like a lady at court aloofly offering her hand, affording him better access with all the grace required of Pörröinen Tassut Kuningatar. A queen did not swoon, but the tickle of his whiskers against the satin of her black-masked cheek sent a ripple of electricity skimming down her spine and capturing her plush tail in an eager lash. “It was a brilliant ambush,” she praised him warmly, “one that bards will sing of for generations.” They certainly would! Lotte was determined to sing her children the tale of Day’s Great Rebellion, and being that she planned on having a multitude of them, at least a few of them would end up carrying on the Ansbjørn oral tradition. Speaking of bards, “Do you sing, Day?” she asked curiously. He had a splendid speaking voice, but that didn’t necessarily mean he enjoyed singing.

His heart seemed to work double-time when she allowed him his kiss, and the praise that followed made him feel like ten wolves instead of just one. They were both being silly, but Day took these compliments to heart. When Lotte said them, these things sounded true.

"I sing a little," Day admitted with a happy laugh and a wag of his tail. All he knew were the hunting and breeding songs of the Alaskan packs, but they were beautiful and haunting tunes, and his voice was low and smooth. Would this be enough to impress the pretty wanderer? He wondered briefly if Lotte sang, but just as quickly, he decided that she must. She must be a singer and a dancer and every other wonderful thing that Day could think of.

We should hunt together, he thought, remembering how well it'd helped him to bond with Banner that day - and he really needed to track her down again, but for now - "But I'm going to need another kiss-and-a-half before you get a tune out of me, your Majesty."

This time, Day turned his own cheek to her.

I seem to be in short post mode. ♥ Sorry!

“I sing a little,” confessed the rime-eyed crowbane, and Lotte’s moonbright eyes widened in pleased surprise as she drew nearer to him. “Your voice has a price, does it?” she asked rhetorically, a throaty chuckle tumbling heartily from her lips. For a moment she pretended to think it over, wickedly allowing the grayscale wolf to linger in suspense, but she relented quickly. She was impatient to hear him sing, her dark mood banished by their silliness and the utter ease of their conversation, and she leaned in with a low, enticing whisper: “for your loyalty, urhea soturi, I will give you two.” Thus saying, she edged closer to him and softly kissed the satin of his gray-furred cheek, drawing back to repeat the gesture on the opposite side. It never occurred to her that her playful ministrations might be misconstrued, or that Arturo might take exception.

Properly knighted, Day felt that he was ready to fulfill his own end of the bargain. Though he desired - for a moment - to see what more he could barter from her, Day was a man of his word. He'd named his price and she had paid it, and now he'd give what she was due.

Sitting up straight and clearing his throat importantly, Day gave his audience a stern look before he explained: "This is the song of digging - for dens, for caches, and for frozen meat - not to be confused with the song for denning, which pertains only to the goings-on of life after a den is dug."

It seemed an acceptably silly topic with which to entertain the pretty queen. Though a love song had been on the tip of his tongue, Day thought she would enjoy this one far more. And so, taking one last moment to make sure he remembered the words, Day began to sing.

Let's just assume the tune/words go something like this but with more about digging and less about the actual ice - though there will still be some talk of ice, obviously. Because Alaska.

"It's very cold, where I come from," he added when he thought he'd sung enough - the whole song was tedious and winding, so he stopped only a few rounds in, highlighting the verses that'd been favored by his pack. It was actually impossible to sing all of it in one sitting - and was often added to during the longer or happier winters.

Lotte listened with an expression so serious it must have seemed abnormal given her vivacious mien. When it came to songs and stories, her memory was impeccable — and as Day began to sing, a rhythmic, winding melody befitting monotonous tasks such as digging through ice and snow, she committed the tune to memory. It wasn’t long before she began humming along, tunelessly at first, then weaving her warm, rich alto with the winter wolf’s deep, sonorous timbre. “Where I come from, too,” she replied with a blithe wave of her coal-tipped tail. “We do not have a digging song.” Yet, she thought mischievously to herself, knowing that she would teach her children and her siblings’ children once they were all together once more. At mention of the cold, winter came to mind — it was arrogant, perhaps, but Lotte doubted the wolves of Donnelaith fully understood the threats the season might present. She felt a growing need to get back to the sanctuary of the sequoias. “Day, my friend,” she said warmly, drawing near to press a tender lick to his cheek if the stalwart male would allow it, “you may not realize it, but you have given me much. I must return to Donnelaith — to the grove of sequoias near the coast. If you have need of me, come and play, herra.”