Ravensblood Forest the one minute. the soldier's minute

The breath whooshed from Lotte’s lungs as Arturo collided with her. Mindful of the Ceannasach’s brilliant mind, she tipped back her head and turned her muzzle slightly to the side; it wouldn’t do to make her first gift to him a blistering concussion, after all. Long, soot-stockinged forelegs encircled the coywolf’s svelte frame with care as Lotte fell back and absorbed the brunt of the impact, pillowing Arturo’s black-masked face in the thick, luxurious ashen ruff that lined her throat and décolletage. It was fortunate for both wolves that the earth upon which Lotte landed was blanketed in emerald moss and long, silver-green grass — true to form, she hadn’t considered the consequences of her actions beforehand. Drawing breath, she spent it on a rather winded chuckle, gently caressing one tapered ear with a tender nibble of her incisors before smoothing an affectionate kiss over the Fearghal’s brow. “So you see, Ceannasach,” she said cheerfully — and a little breathlessly, “I am not fat like my brother the Bear. I am simply comfortable.” She wriggled beneath him appealingly, willing him to take note of the athletic musculature beneath all the fluff — and wondered why it suddenly mattered to her so much. Before Arturo she wished to showcase all of her skills — prowess in battle, speed and surefootedness, vocal acrobatics, the whole nine yards. She wanted to be significant to him — better than other females who were closer to him in proximity and loyalty. She was not of the Family and had no recourse to joining it — at least not until winter had run its course — but there was something in the embers of Arturo’s eyes that kindled an answering flame within her.