Altar of Twilight got a hardwired metal soul

the bristled woman introduces herself as 'tehama of moonspear' as if the latter meant anything to him. being a stranger to the wilds and a loner to boot, it means little. technicality? tvarog almost laughs. i hate to break it to you, tehama of moonspear, but technicalities aren't enough to incite prickly territoriality. it can be a technicality all you'd like but the fact of it is your borders don't claim this territory. tvarog wasn't in the mood to argue with her over it, truly, but now that he knew he'd burrowed under her skin stuck around for that fact all the same.

that's quite an assumption, he teases loftily. but for the record, i have enough manners not to be near your borders. despite how much she might argue otherwise. and i don't really do figurative. tvarog drawls. figurative doesn't equate fact. your borders do not extend to this territory and therefore, i am free to walk thru it as i please. those were the facts as he saw it, at least; unsure why she was even wasting the breath to lecture him on it when it was clearly easier for her to go about her business and let him go about his.

it wasn't as if he had intentions of lingering there: he was just passing thru on his way to where-ever the wind took him next.