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

Lotte listened with an expression so serious it must have seemed abnormal given her vivacious mien. When it came to songs and stories, her memory was impeccable — and as Day began to sing, a rhythmic, winding melody befitting monotonous tasks such as digging through ice and snow, she committed the tune to memory. It wasn’t long before she began humming along, tunelessly at first, then weaving her warm, rich alto with the winter wolf’s deep, sonorous timbre. “Where I come from, too,” she replied with a blithe wave of her coal-tipped tail. “We do not have a digging song.” Yet, she thought mischievously to herself, knowing that she would teach her children and her siblings’ children once they were all together once more. At mention of the cold, winter came to mind — it was arrogant, perhaps, but Lotte doubted the wolves of Donnelaith fully understood the threats the season might present. She felt a growing need to get back to the sanctuary of the sequoias. “Day, my friend,” she said warmly, drawing near to press a tender lick to his cheek if the stalwart male would allow it, “you may not realize it, but you have given me much. I must return to Donnelaith — to the grove of sequoias near the coast. If you have need of me, come and play, herra.”