Hideaway Strath the teeth of the eye of a storm

Breezing through Lotte posts. I am sorry for the lackluster quality!

Lotte grinned good-naturedly at her brother’s self-inflicted misfortune, utterly untroubled by his pique. “Kuten haluat!” she chirped cheerfully, canting her head in a patently subservient manner as she bent to retrieve her son. She didn’t know the cause of Dagfinn’s aversion but it didn’t bear mentioning; she loved him better than any other creature alive and maybe more than her own children, and he could have whatever role in their lives he liked. Personally, Lotte pictured him as the dashing, exciting uncle who rescued them from the monotony of always living in the same place. The wolves of these wilds continued to mystify the smoke-and-shadow rogue, who was accustomed to wider territory and a lot more adventuring.

Cradling Roarke against the plush fur of her décolletage, Lotte groomed him rhythmically, humming to him as Dorthe had hummed to Dagfinn and Lotte once upon a time. She was sorry to have woken the boy, but she was sorrier that Dagfinn had been forced to pick up the slack while she slept. “You stink — and you un-bathed all the bath I did!” she shot back playfully, showing her teeth in mock frustration. As she focused in on the little snowdrop, her argent eyes grew oddly distant. “Don’t get attached,” is what she wanted to say to him. She still didn’t think that the cub’s odds of survival were very good — she didn’t know if Eirlys was going to turn that corner and catch up to her siblings, but she didn’t know if she wasn’t going to do that. Ultimately, Lotte didn’t know anything about neonatal care aside from what instinct told her — and instinct was kind of a pessimist. “Give her to me if you’re not going to re-bathe her,” she suggested.