Stavanger Bay no thanks I already 8

The intent, watchful way the odd-eared woman’s gaze grazed Lotte’s black-masked features might have been unsettling to a less practiced wolf, but the Ansbjørn girl was well accustomed to scrutiny and her eager, appeasing expression did not waver. Besides, it pleased her to have the golden-eyed dancer’s largely undivided attention. “I am,” she affirmed in a low undertone. “I am newly come to these wilds, and I do not understand what it is you celebrate here,” she confessed, “but I am willing to learn.” Her gaze fluttered to Arturo and Chusi but returned almost immediately to Doe, about whom she was incredibly curious. “I am called Kitku,” she said, feeling a stab of guilt at lying to the rust-winged butterfly. There was a measure of truth to her words. She had been called Kitku by a fair few, and not even the eradication of those few by her own fangs — a necessary evil — could delegitimize her claim to the moniker. “May I ask what it is you wish to be called?” Her smile, bright and warm, intimated that she would like nothing more than to address Doe with her typical verbosity, but respect for the slim-muzzled woman bade her ask.