The Sentinels where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night

Yup! No post order for this series of threads. ♥
Going back to the olden days of RP where everyone just kind of did what they liked.

When it came to admitting weakness, Lotte could be notoriously stubborn, so when Hemlock asked about her pain level the Banríon regarded her a little warily. “You can see that I hurt?” she questioned in dismay. A disappointed huff plumed from her lips. “Well,” she said grumpily, “maybe I do. Only sometimes. Only a little.” Lotte liked Hemlock, but she didn’t like admitting that she wasn’t completely up to par. Her next words, while not completely truthful, were as honest as she could make them.

TRUTH: “It feels as if they are twisting my insides — ”

TRUTH: “ — and I am forced to stop and get my wind back — ”

HALF-TRUTH: “ — but it is here and gone so fast; I have hardly noticed it.”

BLATANT LIE: “ I am sure all will be well.”

In truth, Lotte was “sure” of very few things these days. She did not want to travel across the Teekons to raise her children in a place she’d never seen before; she did not want to stop every few hours to grant Olive’s children a reprieve; she did not want to give Blackfeather Woods reason to laugh at Teaghlaigh’s hasty retreat. It was a gnawing hole in her heart that she had offered gentle Coelacanth to the dark mistress as part of a trade, regardless of the outcome. Lotte had done these things to protect the children in her womb and the Family she had sworn herself to — it went without saying that her love for Arturo was paramount in driving her to such ruthlessness, and if given the chance she’d have done it all over again the exact same way.

Abruptly she sought him, throwing her small, bearlike ears forward upon her skull and casting her argent gaze about until she spotted her elegant gangster in gentleman’s clothing. A sigh went through her as she regarded his prone form, so precious and fragile in slumber. “For him I would do it all again,” she said aloud, not fully realizing that she was giving voice to a stream of consciousness that Hemlock was not privy to. She recalled the sleeping herbs she was supposed to take in looking at him, but her expression when she turned to the fiery wise woman was fiercely determined. “I will not take them now,” she decided, “for spirits walk here and I wish to stand vigil. This was my home, once.”

Turning her head to the plateau that loomed to the southwest, “I will take them when we reach the plateau,” she said, judging that it would take them one or two days to get that far. She was sure that she would be able to sleep soundly in the weald — it was a special place for the Banríon and her black-masked love and she planned to savor their last evening there. There were hollows, nooks, and crannies to bed down in, and it was a familiar enough location that she would feel more than comfortable doing so. Sleeping in the open, though, had always been difficult for the shadow-wrapped rogue. If there was any time she would need a sleeping aid, it’d be on a wide, tall plateau in the middle of the afternoon.