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

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Arturo drew in a soft breath when she (playfully) accused him, her warm nip to the juncture of his throat and shoulder leaving a tingle of nerves in it’s wake. The gangster’s chuckle was warm, a soft, buoyant, utterly affectionate rumble that lingered in the strong column of his throat as she rubbed her body against his in a cat-like manner. He did not mind her quirky touches. In no secret manner, the gangster reveled in them. Cherished them. Cherished her. He watched her with smoldering fiery eyes lifting himself to his feet when she invited — though begged was the more appropriate word here — him to play with her and unable to deny Lotte anything that she wanted of him he obliged her. “Sounds easy enough.” Arturo agreed with a quirky lift of his lips into something that was partially coy, partially devilish. “Very Teaghlaigh indeed.” The smoky timbre of Arturo’s deep, accented voice was a near purr as he answered her question. Information for information.

Two seconds into the game and with a butt of her head at his chin and rub of her cheek against his own she’d already caught him — not that Arturo was going to claim that he minded (because he didn’t). “A nightingale could find her gangster in the Gyrfalcon Keep, if she wishes to go looking for him.” The gangster responded as she had worked the question: as if they were not speaking of themselves but of two different entities entirely. He favored the shortcut through the Keep to carry him to Donnelaith faster when he sought to visit her, had sought it out for Chusi’s use as well since she enjoyed visiting though she knew and he didn’t fancy her taking the long way across the River (but truly his intentions when he’d discovered it were as selfish as they were selfless). “but the Nightingale may sing for [I]Ceannasach in his borders, too, if she feels particularly bold.”[/I] He would not chase her from his lands and with his expressed permission to freely roam his lands she was granted a right that he would (very likely) never give to any other. But Lotte wasn’t anyone else. She was Lotte.

Swiftly she scampered away from him, fleet of foot as she was. He felt the absence of her heat as the chill seeped into to rush away her lingering warmth. He was after her just as quick and when he caught her it was his turn to circle her tightly, making sure that he touched her the entire time, whether it was the brush of his hip or shoulder, or muzzle. “I caught you,” He purled against her jaw, drawing his tongue there, following the grain of her fur. “If Ceannasach is impatient, and he very much so is, how soon could he see his nightingale again?”

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