Neverwinter Forest ctrl+a; backspace; begin again

The forest wolf — a leader, surely, for his scent was everywhere and his bearing was regal and tall — seemed gripped by a barrage of thoughts and feelings Lotte was not privy to. The scent of him was healthy and masculine, rich with the sweet milkscent of new life — she peered behind him, eager to see his little ones, but realized her blunder with a quick shake of her head. “Tietenkin, hän ei olisi tuonut niitä pitkin, älytön tyttö!” she thought, and summoned a smile for both agouti wolves in an attempt to assuage their concerns. “Hm,” she murmured thoughtfully, continuing to sluice what water she could over the poor boy’s wounds, “who he is…why, he is someone’s son,” she said cheerfully, “tai ehkä someone’s father or brother or mate. As for what happened…” She trailed off, looking thoughtfully at the charcoal-patterned wolf with a shrug.

“Am I dead?” he breathed then. “Why does it still hurt?”

Clucking her disapproval, Lotte smoothed her tongue briskly over the crown of the male’s head with compassion glimmering in her mercury eyes. “Dead?” she repeated, her lilting alto warm with bemusement that buried the worry she felt. The strange wolf’s wounds were grave, but he was alive. Whether she could keep him that way, though, depended on how much fight he had left in him and how well she could remember Tove’s methods. “If you were dead, you’d not be bleeding all over these kind wolves’ doorstep, would you? And hurting besides?” Someone’s brother. Lotte couldn’t imagine something so horrible happening to her own kin, especially Dagfinn — her kaksonen. “Ai, who did this to you, pikku leijona? May he suffer from the bites of deer ticks in the most inconvenient of places.” She eyed her work critically, edging nearer to the mahogany-eyed wolf. “I am going to hurt you more before I am through, little mud puddle,” she warned bluntly, “but be warned, if you try to hurt me back, I am trained in the ways of the soturi — and I will not allow it.”

With these last words, she redoubled her efforts, laving Marbas’ wounds with her tongue as gently as she could — pausing only to suggest with a smile of deference to the agouti leader, “It will be a miellyttävä häiriötekijä if you speak, suuri kuningas,” with an ingénue’s careful sweetness, her small, triangular ears pinning respectfully back against her skull as her tail whup-whup-whupped the earth. She was only a month older than Pasha, making her the second youngest wolf in attendance, but Lotte had always been a decisive, motherly creature — and she could not help the instincts that made her take control of the situation. Surely it would help distract both the perturbed agouti wolf and her wounded patient if the forest king were to delve into a little talk.