The Sentinels She plays a thrilling violin, painful and sweet

I wrote replies to all of Lotte and Coelacanth’s threads this morning and my computer ate every single one of them.
Hence, this will suck and I have no will to make it better. I am sorry. ♥

There was an unquestionable allure to the patchwork female that stretched beyond her apparent closeness to Doe and Arturo, and Lotte found herself hard-pressed to keep her fascination and curiosity in check. “Furiosa,” repeated the rogue, rolling the syllables slowly over her tongue. Mindful of the fact that Doe yet knew her as Kitku, “My name is Ansbjørn,” she murmured in her warm, rich alto. “How fares Teaghlaigh?” She spoke the word with the reverence it was due, her mouth producing the foreign syllables with a bard’s graceful fluency — had she not said it to herself night after night, wondering whether one day she would trade witchcraft for ravens? Though she was loathe to divert her attention from the dark-eyed wolf, the approach of another did not go unnoticed; Lotte turned her head, keeping her ears cupped attentively toward Furiosa, and spotted the telltale mismatched eyes within the shadows of the sentinels. In return to Emaleth’s nod, the argent-eyed female swept a bow, one leg curling beneath her breast as the other splayed before her. To Furiosa, “I am no leader,” the younger wolf confessed, “but the metsä tarkkailija — ah, the forest watcher — herself is in your presence. She and her sister are our leaders. If you wish, I can call for the witch queen.” Her tone was no less conciliatory for its wistfulness.