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

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.”