Dawnlark Plains η

her husband is a force, standing amid the men of darukaal and the norsemen, unshaken by the presence of those who do not share his tongue. his confidence is a tangible thing, coiling around his shoulders like a mantle of war. but she knows him, knows the impatience that lurks beneath his skin.
she does not miss the glint in his eye—the challenge, the unspoken dare to see who would flinch first.
her response is not immediate. instead, she leans in, tracing a slow kiss along his jaw, grounding him in the way only she can. listen, she breathes, quiet, for him alone. she does not wish for him to feel lesser, but he must understand. the men speak of peace. they seek freedom to move, to trade. the white woman—ayovi—she asks for safety in the north, so that no clan must fight for scraps.
her tail flicks as she watches the woman speak, watches how the others listen, some with scrutiny, some with open disdain.
it is a request, she continues, her voice level, measured. but it is also an opportunity.
she looks to the saatsine hunters forming behind them, their strength evident in the set of their jaws, the readiness of their bodies. you will decide what is best, husband. but consider this—war is easy. peace is power.
she glances once more toward the norsemen, toward the men speaking in words she does not know, and then back to sun eater. you are strong enough to defend our whelps. this i know.