The Sentinels in the darkening of the year

When Lærke did not appear, Lotte’s small, triangular ears fell back upon her crown, crestfallen. She found it difficult to immerse herself in the gathering — Marbas, little lion, I think you’d bring harm with you, she thought, her mind’s voice teasing and affectionate rather than chastising — but her eyes settled upon both sisters with fondness. Their closeness caught at Lotte’s heart; she looked at her side with a quick, involuntary motion, at the place Dagfinn always used to be, and wondered if she would ever be truly happy this far away from him. Bowing elegantly, she offered her respect to the wolves who loved and lived for the sanctuary of sequoias, moving forward just as Emaleth departed the scene. Still, she approached the málóid banríon with fondness, nosing against the underside of the younger female’s jaw in homage. “Your customs are beautiful, noitakuningatar,” she said honestly, for though she lacked her usual zeal, the hallowedness of the ceremony was not lost on her. Lotte opted not to partake of the morning glory seeds and melted into the shadows of the sequoias as silently as a ghost. She did not plan to go far, for she wished to speak with @Deirdre, but she equally did not wish to intrude upon her packmates’ spiritual experience.