Firestone Hot Springs come and lay your bones on the alabaster stones

I wish Lotte had gotten to meet Osprey! She was one of my favorites. ♥
Melody derived from the soundtrack of Disney’s Moana.

Surprise widened the singed female’s eyes and caused her small, bearlike ears to prick with visible interest. “My brothers and I hail from the northern tundra,” she remarked, her tail beginning to wave with prolonged slowness beneath the surface. “We made our home with other soturit in the Enok Tundra but wished to see more of the world.” Tipping her head back, she laughed for the joy of it, the melody of her mirth rusted and tattered at the edges; she cleared her throat with a soft, muffled sound and gushed, “Aren’t trees wonderful?” Her silver eyes sparkled as she recounted, “My äiskä — my mother, she would sketch their silhouettes in the snow when we begged her to explain trees and fields and flowers, but to see them with my own eyes and feel them and smell them…” She breathed deeply, presently unable to smell the sulfur in the air due to her blocked sinuses, and mimed a sign of deep contentment. “It was every bit as wonderful as I dreamed.” In this moment, Lotte shed the tart bossiness that made her seem matronly at times, letting her innocence peek through.

She hummed to herself, thinking of the flower dancer, and her heart warred with itself as she drew a careful breath and wondered whether to cry or laugh. She was certain Starbuck had gotten free of the fire, but had no idea of the little coywolf’s whereabouts. I could have loved her, she thought sadly to herself, and scribbled out a few lyrics while a meandering song spilled at first wordlessly from her lips.

I know a girl from a forest;
I met her beside the stream.
She loved to dance with the flowers;
she loved to sing with our queen.
Now that the fire has swallowed
the sentinels’ hallowed heart,
there is no compass to guide me
where you are.

Without shame she ceased her humming to sing outright:

“You are a girl who loves the flowers.
You are a girl who loved our queen,
lost to me.

My kukka tanssija, where are you now?
Did you escape the inferno’s snare?
Do you still live beside the sea?
Beside me?”

Falling silent, “I am sorry, herra,” Lotte said, amending her melancholic expression with a warm and easy smile. “I was thinking of the flowers — and then I was thinking of a friend who loved them. I have not seen her since the fire.” To distract herself and give the male a chance to talk lest she talk both of his eardrums to pieces, “How do you find life outside the north?” she asked him, genuinely curious.