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

Dagfinn laughed warmly at his sister's jibes, tapping his chin firmly on the crown of her head. Truthfully, he didn't know if he would ever blink sweetly at a girl - such things just didn't interest him yet, and sometimes he thought that if it hadn't already happened, it wasn't going to. He thought, fleetingly, of the Murhe Sala and bright, beautiful Asherah, but even those infautuations had not been the kind that he knew Lotte to speak of. He admired mountains and river and the endless plains of Enok for their beauty, and the women he favored with song and story were one in the same.

Lotte, he knew, had other things in mind. Still, he thought to tell her that he'd met her bard's niece.

"This old bard of yours - did he tell you his niece's name?" Dagfinn asked, casting his eyes slyly toward his brat of a sister. "Because," he continued, wanting to speak over any rekindling of his sister's story, "I met a wee slip of a girl with tufted ears and cat-like paws and fur like ink. She didn't speak, but she was a friendly sort."

Asherah had been friendly, too, but something made him hold back his memories of her for a while longer.