Ravensblood Forest the one minute. the soldier's minute

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. ♥

As a small cub, Lotte had made a game of pushing her body against her father or mother, oversized paws digging furrows in the earth as she attempted to topple them over. She had been a willful child despite her sweet nature, and many of these shove-o’-war matches had ended in Lotte falling asleep with all four legs outstretched, her head, neck, and spine sprawled crookedly against Aksel or Dorthe — usually after crying out, “En ole väsynyt!” Over time, this odd behavior had manifested itself in other ways; in times of fear or distress, she often butted and rubbed her head and shoulders against her brothers and sister, finding comfort in the contact like an overzealous cat. It was this impulse that had driven her to press so brazenly against the Ceannasach — and as he spoke of accompanying her to speak with Szymon and Doe, Lotte felt the need of it again. She could not find it in her heart to tell the coywolf that, come what may, she had to make her confession alone. “Arturo,” she murmured, oddly hesitant. Words tumbled over themselves, tangling in her throat, and she smiled up at him with her muzzle faintly parted — laughing at herself.

He was a dangerous man. It was on the tip of Lotte’s tongue to ask him to come away with her, explore the mountain she had set her sights upon before her sights had settled with fierce intensity upon Arturo himself. Still more alarming was the fact that there was part of her young brain already trying to rationalize that one forest was very much like another forest, and surely the witch queen would not harbor any ill will toward Lotte even if she did choose to become part of Arturo’s Family. You have your own family, foolish girl, she chided herself, knowing it to be true. What of Lærke? What of Dagfinn? They had always cautioned their impulsive sister about taking more time to make decisions — and her decision to let Kitku take the reins had gotten her into quite a mess already. Before making any rash promises, “I must think of how to tell them,” she admitted, unable to keep from stepping forward again, her intention to nuzzle once more against the fiery-eyed gangster’s collarbone. “I am not ready yet.” Her words were carefully honest; she knew already that she could not take Arturo with her to make her confession, which was another subject entirely. Still, she didn’t know how she wanted to go about it or how much she wanted to confess. That would take some time — and thinking, for Lotte, was always better done on the move.

With all the grace of a grizzly bear trying to walk a tight rope in a snowstorm, Lotte changed the subject. “I never sang for you,” she murmured against his chest, recalling that she’d composed a verse for him at the Den Night and had simply tucked it away for another time. She then drew back, eyeing him teasingly. “I sang for Chusi and for Doe, but not for you — yet.”