Swiftcurrent Creek rasputin

stupid! her fierce yellow eyes watched the warrior. he was made of hard black stone, but he was tired. of her? of what? weary? enraged? she tried to know in the spare moments she was given.

again a rejection. a fool! muskrat felt the keen cutting edge of his insult to her own prowess, and seethed with ire. he saw her as something to be pitied, released. not a threat. it was in the way he spoke to her, and it incensed muskrat.

little; the proud head tilted. they needed no clan to inflict massive wounds, and for this reason were they called panthers.

"then i go, tuta runa." it boiled her belly to give in, to act as if the bit of flesh he had torn was repayment for what she had eaten and the blood she had shed. fool! this was weakness. you killed or kept to stop that warrior from returning to their people, from saying 'ah! here is a place without teeth!'

but maybe he did not care. muskrat took a limping step backward, and then another, reluctance clear in the tightness of her jaw, and hatred beginning its sordid curl in her belly. nothing else had lived there since cloud singer's murder, but now she had a new reason to burn.