Moonspear Do a fake dab to smell my armpits, whiff it

Much had happened over the past few days; many visitors, many exchanges. There had been a thrum of excitement that Lyra sensed upon their mountain, though the season could partly be blamed for that. Hydra had been busy in her usual way, and in amongst making alliances and deals with fellow would-be matriarchs, she had found time to track down those of age upon Moonspear and stress them out of their heat. Lyra willingly among them. The season made her agitated and restless, she had gladly allowed her sister to do what she must to rid her of it (even if the process itself had been taxing).

Yet still a certain tenseness remained, and the Ostrega had taken to patrolling the borders at a steady clip in an effort to appease her itching paws. So far, the patrol had been largely uneventful, that was until she spied a small, dark shadow lingering a little too close for her liking. Their head was tilted upright, as if studying — or admiring — the peak and there was no indication they were a threat. Yet the older woman was in a mood, and her haughty pride was on full display as she bore down upon the other with a lifted tail and bared fangs. Back, came her wordless warning.