Stjornuati had mentioned her only briefly when Valmúa had caught the scent hanging around he and Solpallur. It wasn't something that surprised her at all. Young, dumb women had always been attracted to the brothers. Even from her perspective, it made sense. They were young, strong, confident, and did whatever they wanted to do. Women liked men that they could not control.
Well, most women.
The fire woman hunted the scent of @Meadow. It wavered about alongside the smells of her brothers where the earth dipped. On the western side, Val moved swiftly to see if she could find and catch the one that followed so easily though there was no relation to the two stoic northerners.
Val wanted to know: was she worthy of their Watch?

The young healer was looking at dirt. How terribly quaint. Quickly and easily, Valmúa invaded her space, pushing in beside her without actually touching the lítið rauður dádýr, as @Solpallur had so tenderly called her.
Valmúa was not easily impressed by women. She looked at Meadow, who looked rather basic and small; she seemed not to have the body of a warrior, which hardly surprised the fire woman. She was a twig. A lovely little flower her brothers had picked and replanted to grow in their odd little garden of ravens.
What are you doing? she asked, her Icelandic accent drenching every word. She didn't care that the other might not know her, but assumed that at some point one of her brothers had mentioned that she had appeared to them from thin air from their northern homeland.

Plants? Stjornuati also likes plants, said the red sister plainly. She had accompanied her pallid brother on many occasions to hunt for herbs. Valmúa had no interest in such things. There were certain things that grew that she found intriguing, but none were of the medicinal purposes that Meadow searched for.
As the woman moved away, she followed in step, appearing an expert at minor annoyance for all of the wolves of the Watch. If there was one skill she could call herself a master in, it was indeed the art of getting beneath one's skin. I come to see you of course, she said, words slipping from her tongue like venom. I have heard only good things, lítið dádýr. You are a healer? She was actually curious, despite her prickly exterior.

Valmúa did not catch the narrowing of the young healer's pleasant eyes, trailing just beside and in back of her and thus unable to watch her expressions. Instead, she was thinking about whether or not Meadow might be konuefni for Stjornuati. Perhaps their shared knowledge and interest in botany might prove enough to light the spark that the eldsystir was hunting for. What luck would it be to find a woman to steal Stjornuati's heart already living among them. Kigipigak's mission could even prove pointless outside of scouting the surrounding territories and packs — her Kigibonbon would be thrilled at such an advent when he returned.
Yet Valmúa knew that matters of the heart were strange, fickle, and required time and care. She would make no such gains should she push Meadow in a direction that did not suit her, especially after only just meeting her properly.
And so, she merely planted a seed, hoping that with mild care it might grow to be a sapling. My brother is always willing to teach, she said, her voice drained of any remaining malice. She loved her brother, and it was quite true that he had always held an interest in things that grew. The sister recalled when they were young, he would often try to show her the ones that interested him most. She, for her part, had mostly ignored these bids at knowledge sharing. She made an assumption that he was willing to teach, but figured a pretty young thing asking him would be an easy sell.
I do not care about these things, much, so he do not talk to me about, she explained, a small smirk on her copper-toned face. It was true. She assisted, but their ventures for herb gathering were almost always silent apart from her attempts at distracting him.

Valmúa took no notice of the girl's change beyond the mild relaxation of her posture. I enjoy a good fight like the rest of my kin, she answered, a small grin threatening at the corner of her lips. All who had been raised in Stormhaven knew the language of tooth and claw. From her youth, she had learned this violent dance. She knew the rhythm. She had the bruises and scars to prove it, though all were too small to see through her winter coat.
We are taught when we are small the dances of battle, the eldsystir explained, running up beside the young medic just to bump her hip with her shoulder, as though to demo her abilities. She grinned like a child, satisfied with knowing she could best the pretty little thing in such a dance.