Duskfire Glacier let me give you my life

she writes herself #sos

Tuwawi came close, and Tonravik did not strike even as the woman snapped and spoke of knowing nothing. Tonravik agreed entirely. She did not. Because this was a position she would never allow herself to be in. Tonravik felt her own lips peel back as a snarl came from her throat, and she moves to half-circle Tuwawi to present the woman with an opportunity to—literally—to save her face. She had been seconds from ripping it apart, but it was Njal that prevented her from doing so. Her mother would not have thought of him for an instant; her mother would have made Tuwawi bleed. Tonravik would not waste another chance to strike, so thin was her patience.

Tonravik listened to her last set of words. Cur.

But she knew what she was, and what she was not; and so then her eyes present a direct, irrefutable challenge as they move to lock onto Tuwawi's. I know what I need to. The bear of a wolf does not attack, she waits, waits for Tuwawi to test her. In the eyes of Tonravik, the wailing wretch was unfit to rule, too emotional, too unstable. Tonravik had bargained with Njal, but there were things unwritten in their contract. His unstable flame looked to lick at an unwilling recipient, and the woman steeled herself. She bit back. Her full stature was presented as she drew herself upward, steeling herself for the onslaught she knew was to come. She did not doubt Tuwawi capable in fighting, but certainly in leading.

Tonravik could, and would, do both. You cannot lead. Her tail was rigid, and so was she, prepared, rooted.