Emberflame Ridge Attawkǒnts

"Ikke langt, ikke før unger er stærke. Du har lovet mig havet, mand," she reminds him, lips holding apart on the cusp of both a laugh and sigh. Ayovi settles for her own kiss, passing a covetous tongue up the coarse jaw, enfolding her lips into the flesh there. It thrills her to speak like this, in equal standing with the rogue. To make decisions together.
“Du er stille. Er min nordmand så behagelig?” She asks, gazing just north of his jaw where the row of teeth are blood-red in their staining.
“Du møder Saatsine. Hvad udtalelse?” Another sweeping caress, then Ayovi pulls her nose to look at him pointedly, thoughts running wildly back and forth over what he'd said only moments before.
"Is it what you desire, Skorpa? Magt? Power?"
To be the power in the North?