The Sentinels I am very dark, but lovely, O daughters of Jerusalem

Brontide has an inexplicable Scottish accent.

A contented sigh spilled from Lotte’s jaws as she smothered her twin in the dewlap-like ruff of thick fur that collared her delicate throat. They huddled together, making up for lost time, and Lotte fussed over him before beginning her tale — her tongue and fangs fastidiously preened his face, neck, and ears while her long, powerful limbs sought to prevent his escape. Smallest of her siblings, still she was a formidable opponent, and her instinctive [s]mothering was unavoidable. “A proper story,” she mused, unintentionally flip-flopping between languages. “Like you, I parted ways with the bear. His kohtalo pulled him here with an arrow’s unerring swiftness, but I was intercepted.” She paused to collect her thoughts, but lest Dagfinn bite her for keeping him in too much suspense, she eased fully into her telling — lapsing into their beloved Finnish for fluency’s sake. “I met a bard — one of three, though I did not meet the other two. His eyes were fire and his fur was bourbon and whiskey and black licorice besides; he smelled of salt and his body was notched with scars. His voice, like yours, was deep — but it was weathered and rough, guttural with the grit of sleepless nights.”

Warming to her tale, Lotte continued: “‘A’m lookin’ for two little wolves,’ he said,” — she dropped her register accordingly, though she couldn’t reach deep enough to hit the stranger’s bass-baritone timbre — “‘m’niece’n nephew. If you happen t’cross paths wi’ a wee quine — tha’ is, a wee slip o’a girl wi’ ears tufted like a cat’s an’ fur like ink — an’ a lad wi’ eyes an’ fur o’ fire an’ coal, A’ve a message t’send.” She continued, blithely unaware that her brother had met the niece in question, “I tarried too long and the bear could wait no more. I sang my songs for the stranger — Brontide was his name — and he sang his for me, but despite my searching I have not uncovered the whereabouts of his kin. When I arrived in these lands, I gave no thought to the matter and joined the forest pack to be with the bear, sure that you would soon follow — and so you have! My paws, though, are restless — and in exercising them, I came across a wolf named Marbas.” She spoke of her charcoal-patterned friend and the way she’d ministered to him in his last hours, shadows gathering in her argent eyes as she spoke of her reluctance to return to the treelord’s borders. And she told her brother of the Den Night she’d attended, and of Constantine’s desire that she glean what information she could from the wolves of Stavanger Bay.

Still in their mother tongue, “I find the Blackrock warband much to my liking,” Lotte confessed, “and were I a man, I would steal the little butterfly from her black-banded beau and keep her as my own.” The toss of her head was saucy as she barked a soft laugh. “I met a man, too — Arturo is his name, and he is quite handsome. He does not dance, however.”