Dated for the evening of February 5, 2017.
Before Lotte stood the ring of black rocks that marked the border between Blackrock Depths and Donnelaith — she lingered uneasily, realizing that she’d never come clean to Doe and Szymon about the truth of her identity. Her desensitized nose couldn’t tell her what other wolves already knew: the black-banded Leviathan and his sprightly love were long gone. Still, a sense of desolation permeated the hot, thrumming need that raced in infernal fissures all along her skin and she shivered. Before she could question her own actions — is this really a good idea? — or appeal to her wealth of pragmatism — no, this is a terrible idea; Doe and Szymon will not be inclined to forgiveness after losing Deirdre and Skellige and the cubs — she tipped back her head and howled, a short, abbreviated parody of her usual rich, warm alto.
She did not have long to wait for an answer.
“You are Coelacanth,” she murmured when the tuft-eared sheepdog came into view, and the suffering in the brilliant Neptune eyes took her breath away. “Please — do not run away, suloinen tyttö. I met your Uncle Brontide long ago.” Speaking as soothingly as she could, with the occasional break to cough or catch her breath, Lotte explained how she had come to know the girl’s name and what the old bard had said. There was a tremendous outpouring of feeling that spilled through the atramentous gamine’s timorous, fluttering movements, but Lotte did her best to reassure and comfort. Once the tiny naiad seemed to settle — the soot-stockinged rogue dwarfed her in size to a nearly ridiculous degree — Lotte made her own needs known. “Seelie — that is what they call you, yes?” At the girl’s affirmative nod, “I need to speak with Doe and Szymon,” the bard said plainly. “There is something urgent I must tell them — ”
A soft, strangled sound, kittenish in its frailty, cowed Lotte into silence. Before her, the inky ingénue seemed to crumple in on herself, and those luminous seablue eyes spilled over with tears. “They are gone,” she guessed glumly. She didn’t expect an answer from the quivering puddle of ink and feathers, and she didn’t receive one. “Come with me to Teaghlaigh,” she said impulsively, though there was a strange feeling of agitation ticking down her spine at the thought of another female in breathing, touching proximity of Arturo. When the sheepdog’s finely-sculpted muzzle turned reflexively toward the eastern cliffs, Lotte made a second guess: “The cubs?” she asked, and listed the ones she knew by name. “Julep, Isengrim, and Qilaq?” Two nods and a negating shake of the tiny Groenendael’s head told the rogue everything she needed to know. What she didn’t know was that Dakarai had a mate — and his mate was pregnant with his children. “Bring them,” she urged, and she couldn’t deny the vicious joy that teased through her when the girl adamantly took a quavering step back and seemed again to fold in on herself.
“I am sorry, Seelie,” Lotte uttered softly. “I am newly come to Teaghlaigh, but I know of the alliance between my Family and Blackrock Depths. You are Family, Seelie. Doe and Szymon’s children are Family. If you do have need of me, will you promise to come?”
She had to satisfy herself with a decisive nod from the ink-feathered wolfdog, and impulsively stepped forward to cradle the tiny girl in an embrace that swallowed her up. How long they remained like that, Lotte did not know — but she returned home with a heavier heart than she cared to carry.
She did not have long to wait for an answer.
“You are Coelacanth,” she murmured when the tuft-eared sheepdog came into view, and the suffering in the brilliant Neptune eyes took her breath away. “Please — do not run away, suloinen tyttö. I met your Uncle Brontide long ago.” Speaking as soothingly as she could, with the occasional break to cough or catch her breath, Lotte explained how she had come to know the girl’s name and what the old bard had said. There was a tremendous outpouring of feeling that spilled through the atramentous gamine’s timorous, fluttering movements, but Lotte did her best to reassure and comfort. Once the tiny naiad seemed to settle — the soot-stockinged rogue dwarfed her in size to a nearly ridiculous degree — Lotte made her own needs known. “Seelie — that is what they call you, yes?” At the girl’s affirmative nod, “I need to speak with Doe and Szymon,” the bard said plainly. “There is something urgent I must tell them — ”
A soft, strangled sound, kittenish in its frailty, cowed Lotte into silence. Before her, the inky ingénue seemed to crumple in on herself, and those luminous seablue eyes spilled over with tears. “They are gone,” she guessed glumly. She didn’t expect an answer from the quivering puddle of ink and feathers, and she didn’t receive one. “Come with me to Teaghlaigh,” she said impulsively, though there was a strange feeling of agitation ticking down her spine at the thought of another female in breathing, touching proximity of Arturo. When the sheepdog’s finely-sculpted muzzle turned reflexively toward the eastern cliffs, Lotte made a second guess: “The cubs?” she asked, and listed the ones she knew by name. “Julep, Isengrim, and Qilaq?” Two nods and a negating shake of the tiny Groenendael’s head told the rogue everything she needed to know. What she didn’t know was that Dakarai had a mate — and his mate was pregnant with his children. “Bring them,” she urged, and she couldn’t deny the vicious joy that teased through her when the girl adamantly took a quavering step back and seemed again to fold in on herself.
“I am sorry, Seelie,” Lotte uttered softly. “I am newly come to Teaghlaigh, but I know of the alliance between my Family and Blackrock Depths. You are Family, Seelie. Doe and Szymon’s children are Family. If you do have need of me, will you promise to come?”
She had to satisfy herself with a decisive nod from the ink-feathered wolfdog, and impulsively stepped forward to cradle the tiny girl in an embrace that swallowed her up. How long they remained like that, Lotte did not know — but she returned home with a heavier heart than she cared to carry.
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