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

Bounding to her paws in one fluid motion, Lotte intended upon pledging her readiness for battle, but “I — ” was as far as she got. In a flash, the dusty steel-and-cream freight train crashed through the underbrush and obliterated the winged gathering, leaving only a flurry of feathers and a cacophonic chorus of raucous croaking. He circled back toward her with a swagger in his step, his muzzle darting brazenly forth to steal a kiss — and Lotte turned her head regally to the side like a lady at court aloofly offering her hand, affording him better access with all the grace required of Pörröinen Tassut Kuningatar. A queen did not swoon, but the tickle of his whiskers against the satin of her black-masked cheek sent a ripple of electricity skimming down her spine and capturing her plush tail in an eager lash. “It was a brilliant ambush,” she praised him warmly, “one that bards will sing of for generations.” They certainly would! Lotte was determined to sing her children the tale of Day’s Great Rebellion, and being that she planned on having a multitude of them, at least a few of them would end up carrying on the Ansbjørn oral tradition. Speaking of bards, “Do you sing, Day?” she asked curiously. He had a splendid speaking voice, but that didn’t necessarily mean he enjoyed singing.