Frostfire Ridge the blood that runs through my veins is ichor not iron

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Thyri thinks that her first conversation since coming back to the Teekon Wilds is kind of reminiscent to her last conversation — hostile. The only difference is she is being hit on (she presumes) by a strange male she does not know; whereas her last conversation was with Freyja — the sibling she had the largest dislike for. Perfect as she was. The jewel of the Commander’s eye. A sour, metallic taste rises in her mouth, lingering and she shoves those unresolved feelings back down. Thyri does not like being made inferior and suspects that is much of where her tenacity and her assertive tendencies stem from. Those memories have no use here and may be too late to resolve, regardless. She does not wish to linger upon them and turns her thoughts to the present and back to her unorthodox companion. Her gaze narrows keenly at him once more as he apologizes, claims he has to do a thing — she doesn’t ask for elaboration because she doesn’t care — and feels her lips pull into a terse line as he suggests that they tango — again, what does that mean? she wonders — later in life. She is smart enough to draw her own assumptions to the meaning with his bizarre language though she is uncertain whether she is correct or not. The richly champagne colored pelage along her spine bristle as he calls her beautiful — surely meant as a compliment but she feels her worth is beyond her physical attributes — she may be beautiful it is a deception. She is deadly. Or she strives to be, at the very least. She does not comment, instead watching him leave in silence, lingering to ensure he is actually gone before she turns her back to the direction he has disappeared in and goes the opposite way with no real destination in her mind.

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