Sleeping Dragon bone tongue

The woman watched as the healer carved out the line in Heda's shoulder, though Rebekka did not flinch. It was a custom she had known of, a part of grounder culture in her life since before she could understand it's significance. While some cultures would take no appreciation in their kills, each mark signified a victory and a loss; something that could not be forgotten. And so, a reminder for each life taken was both a display of power and a reminder. She longed for the day her pelt was adorned with the strikes of courage as Thuringwethil presented. Yet, Rebekka was a picky fighter, risking her life only when needed unlike some who looked for trouble just to start it. Perhaps she would never gain the scars of generations of grounder warriors, yet, the fact did not disturb her. It made her want it even more. 

The circle stood silent as the work was done, and Rebekka noticed the few blank faces that would have noticeably paled if they were human. Yet, the woman did not expect any less. They were new, they could not understand the importance to the level she did. But they would. A kind assimilation of sorts was in the works, one that produced many distant and wide gazes and eyes as the grounder culture went about it's ways. It was interesting to observe, the reaction and the differences from one type of life to another, something she never would have paid any attention to pre-Sleeping Dragon,.