Sawtooth Spire wrong side of the tracks

Tonravik trusted his word. She did not doubt that he and the whole of the pack did do as he said. They had been here too short a time, however, for her to think her children truly not threatened by anything outside of here. It was good that things were currently as he said; it did not mean they would not be tested. Tonravik simply wanted to be sure that when those tests did come, she would not be on failures side. Tonravik appreciated all those now of the Spire did, and she would never let it be for naught.

She grabbed at the raccoon and sniffed heartily at it herself. His words confirmed what she could smell, but the woman still did not think anything of it. No, the woman believed it even still to be an honest mistake... but her mind worked through the wording. Placed it there... Even as he continued, she did not understand; her brow furrowed, and Tonravik continued to trudge through the meaning. Her own ears heard the mewling, and she yearned to return to the protesting cub who she could identify as Malrok.

The patience she exercised in not reacting violently when she did put it all together was testament to how motherhood could change a woman. Of course, said patience was still incredibly short, and her lip quivered as she forced herself into a stony calm.

"Do not do that again," she advised, her displeasure toward his underhanded gesture clear. If he wanted her to trust him in this, that would not be the way. In fact, it did the opposite. And as he spoke on, while their son mewled, Tonravik felt the chords her sons had played at for days grow thin to the point of breaking apart; perhaps he could see it happen before his eyes as her composure threatened to break. It would be the last time she could humor him in this argument before she turned to her preferred method of violence.

She spoke at last. "You miss nothing. They do nothing but eat, and excrete, and make noise," comes her exasperated tone. It was clear that if she could reverse the roles, she would; it might also be clear that if there were a way for her to bend in this instinct, she would be the benefiting party, so she could get a good amount of rest. The prospect of letting him in was not without appeal, but something deep-rooted within her told her no; just as it would with any that came too close. It was not personal. "If they hear, I do not know, and their eyes are unopened. They are illitsuitok," (stupid) she admitted, without reserve—how could they yet be smart?—"Though they know what to do when they hunger, or are cold. They may all be both, now," she rumbles, "As you keep me from my task so that I can tell you again—no." He must have known this would be the answer. "I cannot explain to you why I must keep all from the den at this time," there was no articulating it. It was her instinct. "I would not trust my own mother with this. It is not you. It is me." Tonravik drew in a deep breath and did not know what to expect. He was adamant in this, but so too was she.


The woman trusted Iqniq with everything. The man had earned that trust many times over—although the action he had admitted to, even despite the admittance, caused it to waver slightly as she continued to wonder why, not fully comprehending his explanation—but in this, she trusted no one, not even her aokkatti. It was no personal slight; it, as ever, was her way.