Phoenix Maplewood maybe I can drown

She restrains her seaglass gaze, not allowing it to flick down to the wound that sears across his hindleg -- not unlike the singe-scarred woods around them -- for already, he seems a proud man. Somewhat like Aakkuluk in that way, not wanting her to 'waste time' on what he deemed inconsequential injuries. Determined, like the tundrian before her draped in midnight blues, that he would forge on without even missing a beat. "No," the gilded piebald denies, giving a firm shake of her head even though she can't remember the last time she ate, such basic needs forgotten under the influence of the psychedelics that carried her so far from home, "Imaq not h-"

The embarrassingly loud gurgle of her stomach rioting against this lie cuts her off mid-protest, warmth spilling across her cheeks beneath her fur as her ears pin lightly at having been caught. The cur gives a sheepish quirk of her lips. Sorry.  

The aureate shepherd heaves a little sigh and squares her shoulders a tiny bit, knowing he may fight her on this next part -- especially if he truly is anything like her stefar. 

"Imaq not hurt. Imaq hunt," the wolfdog tells him, punctuating the stern words with a firm little nod. As firm as any Kalaallit woman can be. She can hunt as good as any man of Nunaat and believes herself to be capable of rustling them up a meal -- hoping that the inua don't decide to withhold the game of these strange lands from her. It'd be like the spirits to get amusement out of making her look like a fool in front of Wintersbane.