the days were drawn long and slow. in bated breaths did the folk of darukaal await the march toward saatsine. they await a war cry that would change the course of their legacy. a burning anticipation to fell those who'd dare lay a fang upon the wife of Blackfell. a woman strong in her own right—a woman who'd managed to survive. 

perhaps that was a greater strength than violence and muscle. either way, the wildling woman felt both a burgeoning respect and a sense of loss. she did not know the woman personally, but a wife of her old friend Blackfell was a friend of hers.

and in darukaal, everyone was bloodkin. and so a sister is found in Gjalla. the memory of her stumbling into Blackfell's arms and Darukaal's borders was fresh. scalding to the mind as the image of her neck torn by fang was an image seared. not to be forgotten, and certainly not to be forgiven. 

they would fell the bastard who'd harmed her. they would retrieve his head and bathe the earth in his viscera. 

but for now, Svalla would see to her. a gift in her grasp—an arctic fox's pelt, along with a fresh carcass of a caribou's calf. it wouldn't heal her, but Svalla hoped it would build a bridge between them. all of the testosterone was overwhelming after all, and being able to find a friend in another woman was a luxury the wildling didn't know she ached for. 

she finds the stormy woman within the haven of she and Blackfell's den. with light steps does she cross the threshold, eyes of ice searching for the woman. hoping wounds have healed enough for her to speak, or perhaps for her to join Svalla on a short walk.

The attack had not dimmed the stormy woman. It had not softened her—something the wildling could respect with a subtle tilt of her chin. If anything, it seemed to have set her on the edge. And perhaps, it made her yearn to spill the blood of the bastard who'd nearly taken her life. 

Svalla hoped so. What was a better image than a woman getting her revenge against a man who'd taken so much? It was in their nature to take and take until they were either full or bored. It is only right for it to be the nature of a woman to want to take it back. 

Her yearn for Saatsine to bleed would be cast aside for now, and the war would not be mentioned. This was a time for healing, not for vengeance. Even that Svalla understood. Her smirk is fleeting and small. "You seem restless." Rightfully so. Svalla would have gone stir-crazy by now, forced to waste away precious time on bed rest. Perhaps if she were a better, gentler woman, she might insist Gjalla rest. 

She doesn't, as she knows Gjalla won't. 

Perhaps what she needs is a break. An escape. 

"For you." She reassured her. Not a gift born out of pity, but one out of seeking connection. Tentatively, but it was an effort nevertheless. With a motion toward the mouth of the cavern, she offers; "Fresh air would do wonders, and you're going to pace yourself to death. Walk with me?"

The soft crunch of snow beneath synced steps is a gentle backdrop. Svalla's pace is slower for once—not because she didn't believe Gjalla could keep up, but because there was no need for urgency or haste. Eyes of cold ice watch the storm-born woman from peripherals. The wound on her throat was healing nicely, but slow. 

"Hmm," she hummed. "It is a wildlings purpose, war. I would be failing my people if I did not meet Saatsine with blade." But it was more than that, wasn't it? Vengeance, the thrill of victory, the war cries and thunder of a march. It all called to her in an age-old hymn. Saatsine had harmed the wife of a friend, had pissed on the legacy that is Darukaal.

They'd brought this war upon themselves. Svalla will charge to remind them of the force they reckoned with, the moment they'd laid a hand on Gjalla. To remind them that the North never kneels. 

There is admiration in her eyes for a fleeting moment, or perhaps the hope of a sisterhood forged between the two. Gjalla is strong—she'd provide this by simply surviving. Svalla wants her at her side not as just an ally in war, but a friend. 

She did not have many these days. Faust was pulling away from her, Blackfell was...well, Blackfell. Stubborn and just as hungry for this war as she, if not more so. Her ears twitch at the thought of the man. She'd never witnessed such turmoil within him—such rage and worry that bubbled into a violent mix.

His love for Gjalla was a palpable. Perhaps a veiled part of Svalla envied it. 

"I've never seen him like this," Svalla sighed. "Worried, upset. He didn't leave your side for days." With a slight grin, she finally turned to look at the woman. "A man I never thought capable of love is now an utter fool for you."