Blood on my Hands

He listened, and Tonravik licked her chops. Worthy? No. The plains wolf was unworthy of anything, and it was a shame their attentions needed to ever fall to her. Tonravik could appreciate poisons in a hypocritical manner, but saw plenty of cowardice in it. If the playing field were meant to be level, it simply would be. Those that tried to shift the balance were not looked upon kindly by her critical eye, and yet, she did not discourage it herself because she knew those sorts lingered in the world. Better to know all they did to simultaneously knock their legs from beneath them and have them choke on their bile in the process. The wicked imagining played out on her face, and she looked now to the spider with a wave of her tail.

She would be glad for her death, after all. So perhaps it was a worthy hunt. She imagined the man before her could overcome the plains woman in more ways than one. He looked as swift as he was powerful. Tonravik herself was all power and brawn. Experience in war had lent her empirical experience to all sorts of characters, unsavory and deceptive, who would play dead and lunge for the throat. And so she was not made stupid by that brawn. Tonravik was an incredibly simple woman in all aspects of life but battle. There, it would seem there was nothing she did not know.

If they did not kill her, and she was alone for the Winter, nature would do the job. Thoughtfully, she queried, "What do you know of poisons?"