The Tangle Hands to your hymnals, hell's at the door

Kigipigak did not know how to take her answer. He wanted to heed it as wisdom as she was so much older than himself, yet the logic behind it did not make sense to him. He heard it more as a fable; something recited but often not fully believed. His good ear turned as she commented on his skills, earning a frisk of his tail.

Of course! I am Tartok; to be Tartok is to be strong. I proved myself to my tribe and am the youngest to earn my name. The boy was on a roll and didn't clue-in that he was talking gibberish as far as Rosalyn might understand it. When Kigipigak realized how enthusiastically he'd burst with that information he became a bit more subdued, not exactly shy, but self-concious.

He clarified by adding, The others earned their name during great battles for sport, or when they took a tribe over. As for what he'd done, Kigipigak remained vague. I won my battle. I am no longer Anneriwok, the unproven.