Duskfire Glacier you want someone to be your reflection, your bitter deception

Night falls by the time Nagruk arrives at the far reaches if the glacier. It's frigid here, an immortal bastion untouched yet by the thawing of near spring. While talks of peace continue, the northwoman forges her own blatant path up icy cliffs to the edge of a frost-clad forest. 

Her ignorance of their borders would be noticed upon their return, she guessed. But Nagruk would be gone by then, and the glacierfolk would chase nothing but a shadow of Saatsine. Wetting her nose, she locates the scent of a woman nearby and lopes to follow as a hound might a fox.

Satori had tended to her leg, wrapped skilfully a stick to splint the break with old ox hide. It was a rough fix, but it would do. To her misfortune, winter was perhaps the worse time of year for such an injury, for most common botanicals would not bloom for another moon or so.

The predicament settled the druid into a state of pain-fuelled unrest as her search continued beyond the confines of her den. Towards a frozen stream and beyond, until she found herself in a small clearing peppered with yellow petals peeking out from beneath a fresh blanket of snow. Wolfsbane, a cold-weather variety. Her nose moved to clear the flowers of ice, inspecting them thoroughly to be sure of her identification.

Like a wraith she moves, pausing now and then to inspect a trail cut through the snow. An experienced tracker is privy to many secrets, and this one is not hard to miss. The woman's gait is uneven, indication of an injury Nagruk has seen many times before on prey, and soon enough she spots her quarry limping ahead.

The shadows keep her hidden but her scent does not; a question breaks the quiet. Who goes there?

Nagruk lumbers into the open. "Caribou hunter," is her answer, glacial eyes scrutinising the woman's useless leg. "Your leader speaks with my Chieftain now. Back soon. Talk fast." She fixes the other with an expectant stare, sidling closer until they are almost nose to nose.

Her paws work to dig a collection of roots from the hard ground, keenly aware that what she was dealing with was far from safe. To ingest this plant was a death sentence, but Satori had heard of tinctures to relieve external pain.

The rustle of snow, the scent of a stranger. Her call was answered swiftly as a bear of a woman approached. "What is there to say?" Deciding to allow the woman a moment to explain herself, she gathers a broad stick in her jaws and begins to mash the roots with it's blunt end. She was hardly in best condition to chase out an intruder.

Cold eyes trace the motions the small woman makes, ears flicking to catch the rhythmic thud of wood against ground. Whatever she is doing is of little interest to her, and Nagruk pointedly raises her voice to command attention.

"Tell me. No lies, or there be trouble later. How long has glacier been camp?" She begins to quiz, senses heightened in case any others have followed the cripple. There was no telling how many their leader has left behind, but the Tartok woman can discern, for the most part, that she is not in any immediate danger.

What was the deal with this one? The gall to waltz right over the border into the heart of their glacier; did she not have any manners?

Satori's eyes narrowed, agitated scowl crossing her face. "A moon, almost." Darukaal was painfully new, just finding it's feet. "But we have grown strong in that time." As if to emphasise that this woman would find no weakness here.

There was something familiar about her though, a scent perhaps that reminded the druid of a face she'd seen not so long ago. "One of yours found me when I did this, you know." Motioning to the leg she now gently pressed the paste onto. "He seemed pretty friendly with our leader."

The effect was almost immediate, and Satori's eyes rolled back as the pain began to subside in great waves.

A moon. Hardly time at all, and yet the glacier has grown to be a bastion worthy of Chieftain's attention. Nagruk is jealous in a way, that a woman so pitiful has found a home here. Selfish desires compete with a thin-line duty to Saatsine; she would obey them for now, though her eyes scan the terrain approvingly.

Attention returns to the task at hand, lip twitching. "Who," she presses, seeking details of the one that calls themself a caribou hunter. Chieftain must be made aware of any connection, if he is not already. Impatient now, the woman slips into a stupor; Nagruk surges forward to set her teeth forcefully onto the other's nape. "Who?" 

But the stranger would get no answer.

Drowsiness made her vision swam, dulled her senses in such a way that Satori was only dimly aware of a stinging in her neck as her skull was shaken by the force of the strike. Her minds eye saw the world in a blur and it wasn't long before she saw nothing at all besides an quiet, empty blackness.

She falls limp as her body is shoved roughly to the ground.

Frustration claws at her belly as the woman ragdolls beneath her grip. She does not understand why; was this woman unwell? Besides the fractured limb, Nagruk cannot smell blood or sickness on her, but something else makes her nostrils flare.

The poultice smells of earth and decay, the fur surrounding of distinct musk - Blackfell, though stale as it was; Nagruk is distinctly unhappy about the pattern that reveals itself. 

A snarl and her teeth unlatch and with great force she throws the woman aside. What is the hunter's connection to the glacier, to their leader? The coal-headed wolf internalises the cripple's words as she washes her scent in snow, tension, distrust, as she begins to descend the bastion as swiftly as she'd arrived.