Deepwood Weald you waiting at ho[m]e for me saying what time do you call this?

Your posts are never poop!

Emboldened by his pursuit, Lotte began deliberately to lay a trail for the Ceannasach — it was sure to end the game, but her impatience to see him overruled her desire to prove her capability as a rogue. With her broad muzzle, she snapped twigs and scored low-lying boughs as she passed them; now and again, she used her blunt talons to score deep furrows in the fern-blanketed earth; and she continued to rub her sterling-and-obsidian fur against the spindly trunks. She knew the weald well, and when she arrived at a badger sett she knew to be abandoned — she backed into it, the thick plush of her fur yielding to the root-riddled entryway. Even Lotte was surprised that so much of her managed to fit, but she wasn’t about to question her good fortune. The trail she’d broken for Arturo ended at a sharp turn that double-backed just slightly — if all went according to plan, she would be able to catch him by surprise and bound out of her mediocre hiding place with a flourish. Eagerly she awaited his arrival, up to her shoulders in the badger den with her nose peeking through the ferns — and to encourage him, she sang:

“My sweetheart, come along!
Don’t you hear the fond song,
the sweet notes of the nightingale flow?”