[J] Bubble Up Inside

The story—to Tonravik—bore little meaning to the woman, who preferred the literal, the real. Perhaps he had been there to see this all unfold. Tonravik knew little of her heretic mothers abandoned faith, but her mother taught her for defensive reasons alone. She recalled, then, her mother telling her of Loa. How wolves believed they could send them against you, with totems and relics and cursed objects.

Tonravik herself only believed in the things that she could see and touch and feel. You lived, and you died, and dead was dead and that was that. There was nothing romantic about it. In your youth it was something you ran from and as you aged, and your bones grew tired and ached, it was something you might come to desire.

The leader thought of his story, and thought of the Omega she had killed in her own pack due to her disobedience, and her inability to contribute anything but senseless noise. It would have been an interesting story for him to chronicle and keep with him. She did not think her impatience a bad thing. It helped her determine the worthy and the unworthy, both; and sometimes, Tonravik could aid the world in weeding out the weak souls that would not make it anywhere else in any case.

Her mate glanced to her, and her wedgelike snout turned in his direction in turn. His train of thought was something that she, too, thought of. He could hunt, protect, fight, and entertain. A unique mix.