The Sentinels She plays a thrilling violin, painful and sweet

Ansbjørn. A name that sounded all too fitting for the steel-clad Amazon, especially when said in her perfectly warm lilt. Furiosa's tail wagged, the void of her eyes swelling in invitation. "I couldn't say," the wretch offered vaguely, a purr in her throat and a reptile's grin curving her mouth; "I'm not there." Her blatant obscurity was meant to be taken lightly, but she was not a spirit afraid of her black humor being taken too seriously. She watched the smoky young she-wolf turn her head slightly, and her salamander smile evaporated as she too spotted a pair of mis-matched orbs, hovering in the shadows.

Furiosa did not like being spied on, and though her spine prickled lightly in distaste, she realized it was not her want to stir trouble in the name of The Family, and her expression had reverted to smooth deference when Ansbjørn returned argent eyes on her. "No need. I have nothing to share but my face, and as long as you know it, I've done my job."

"You're not a leader?" she pressed then, in polite incredulity; choosing to ignore the verbal acknowledgement that they were in the presence of someone else. "Hm," she shrugged in clear dissatisfaction. "Subordination doesn't suit you."