Bearclaw Valley raspberry cigars

She snorted and drew back suddenly. "Wot's a spartan?" She spat deftly, with the impulsive air of a wolf who took great offense to name-calling. She was proud of the way her mother had acted; it made her feel as though she'd been born to be a hero. And while his tone of voice made it seem as though he'd intended the comment as a compliment, she did not know his smirk well enough to see that he'd intended praise. As a proud wolf, she was also easily rattled by her own ignorance. She didn't like it when others used words she didn't recognize. It was part of the reason she spoke so fast- so that others might feel rattled, and not quite as sure of themselves around her; so she loathed it when the tables were turned. 

"Well, after me Mam, there were no more Westfalds, of course. When I say they only tried tree times, I mean they only got tree times to take the valley, an' then they all become past-tense, jennowhatImean." She drawled. "Nah. I grew up gettin' constantly beat to ratshit by my h'older cousins, h'every-sengle-moment they could get me alone. An' I never squealed on 'em, or they'd-a been murked, blood-relation or no." She complained, but then her voice lowered. 

"I got one of 'em." She growled. "The one time 'e come at me on his own, tryna teach me there's worse'n just..." A hiss of a breath. She shook it off. "Well. His mistake." She concluded abruptly. She shrugged. Her tone returned to its usual"So te answer yer question, yes. Yes, I grew up fightin', like me Mam. Woz an heiress, but birthright h'ain't enough. The way of the pack was to weed out the weak, an I'd just pulled out the bad one by the roots when I lost 'em all." She said.