Shadewood Drunk Nights are more fun than Sober Ones

suddenly, kukutux was angry, angry at the way cry had created this situation, angry at his continued denial of her culture. a spark began deep within the girl, soared from her eyes, and for the first time since arriving in the teekons, the duck allowed her rage to break with infuriated tone.

"the only one who thinks me a trinket here is you, cry," kukutux accused, gathering herself to her small paws and the full breadth of her height to glower at the shaman. "in my land, a man willing to hunt for a bride price means to say the woman he has chosen is worth all his effort, a moon of gathering to please her father. it says 'i will be a good husband. i will be a good father.' it is not your way, but it is not wrong."

the green rage of her stare sought to scour the shaman, to drive him into some emotion that was not a tight indifference or a wounded expression. but more than that, kukutux wished cry to leave her, for now she stood spent and trembling before him. and still she held her ground, knowing he could easily overpower her, cast her out. no matter. the duck had spoken the words of her soul, and the spirit's voice was silent for now.