Shadow Mountain nor the warrior for her glory

she cannot forgive such ruthless actions, uncalled for when diplomacy would've more than sufficed. she certainly doesn't forget. she owes the crazy bitch teeth to the throat, to cut off her air as she desperately gasps for it —

the spirits of the commanders call for it in praimfaya's every drawing breath:

jus drein, jus daun. blood must have blood.

these scars are the handiwork of the woman. she gestures so renard can see them. while i don't mind scars, for she had four of them prior to the fight. over a stupid forest haunted by just two of them that they weren't even at anymore. i will be her ripa. her bringer of death; that was praimfaya's promise.

renards words, however, brings praimfaya to the belief that perhaps there is lack of faith in the leadership of the two. she is quick to seize this, tactician's mind already reeling. any crack in their defenses was a prying point and praimfaya was not afraid of broken, bleeding nails. she would claw the cracking dam open, rock chunk by rock chunk. reckless, the word lilts upon her tongue, is for cubs and yearlings. nevermind that she, herself, is a yearling. but it doesn't feel like it. it has never felt like it. not for leaders. not for wolves who their pack is meant to look to. likely, they know this already but praimfaya presses all the same.