Duskfire Glacier behind closed doors

The soft crunch of snow beneath synced steps is a gentle backdrop. Svalla's pace is slower for once—not because she didn't believe Gjalla could keep up, but because there was no need for urgency or haste. Eyes of cold ice watch the storm-born woman from peripherals. The wound on her throat was healing nicely, but slow. 

"Hmm," she hummed. "It is a wildlings purpose, war. I would be failing my people if I did not meet Saatsine with blade." But it was more than that, wasn't it? Vengeance, the thrill of victory, the war cries and thunder of a march. It all called to her in an age-old hymn. Saatsine had harmed the wife of a friend, had pissed on the legacy that is Darukaal.

They'd brought this war upon themselves. Svalla will charge to remind them of the force they reckoned with, the moment they'd laid a hand on Gjalla. To remind them that the North never kneels. 

There is admiration in her eyes for a fleeting moment, or perhaps the hope of a sisterhood forged between the two. Gjalla is strong—she'd provide this by simply surviving. Svalla wants her at her side not as just an ally in war, but a friend. 

She did not have many these days. Faust was pulling away from her, Blackfell was...well, Blackfell. Stubborn and just as hungry for this war as she, if not more so. Her ears twitch at the thought of the man. She'd never witnessed such turmoil within him—such rage and worry that bubbled into a violent mix.

His love for Gjalla was a palpable. Perhaps a veiled part of Svalla envied it. 

"I've never seen him like this," Svalla sighed. "Worried, upset. He didn't leave your side for days." With a slight grin, she finally turned to look at the woman. "A man I never thought capable of love is now an utter fool for you."