The Sentinels She plays a thrilling violin, painful and sweet

Patrolling the borders was not habitual for the soot-stockinged rogue. She was a creature of subterfuge and shadow and preferred to range far outside of Donnelaith or deep within it; it was distasteful to her to be perceived as the ensimmäinen kasvot to visitors or wanderers who had business with the witches of the wood. Still, when general summonses struck the air as this one did, she made herself available — and when faithful @Castiel did not immediately appear, she took it upon herself to see to the stranger’s needs. Her athletic musculature was loose with readiness as she approached the rough-looking female; there was an unsettling, restless air about her that could not be completely attributed to her battle-hardened appearance but was linked to something within that glinted insidiously from inkwell eyes. Lotte watched her warily, not entirely intimidated but certainly on edge, her coal-plumed tail held in a neutral position and her small, bearlike ears pushed interestedly forward upon her skull. What a villain this one would make!

Questing nostrils flared to draw the female deep into her lungs; Lotte smelled the salt of the sea and the spice of Doe and was instantaneously jealous. This envy was only exacerbated by the sap-sticky odor of Arturo’s forest. It seemed that this stranger had touched and been touched by the territories and wolves Lotte herself held dear, but she was not one to hold a grudge and had composure enough to keep a placid expression. “Rakeet, comrade,” she said simply. “What do you require from the wolves of Donnelaith?” Her low, rich alto offered no guarantee of succor; although Deirdre was nearly recovered of her injuries, she was still regularly attending Skellige of the Blackrock and her energies were already being employed leading her father’s wolves. Still, unless the scarred female gave her reason, Lotte had no incentive to drive her away.