Dragoncrest Cliffs rhiannon rings like a bell through the night

Elvira didn’t need them. She didn’t need anybody. So her little tryst with the princess hadn’t gone as planned and she’d gotten kicked out into the unforgiving winter wildland. So none of it mattered. She’d start again—like always. Find somewhere—maybe someone new. Just to spite that bitch and her family. She didn’t need anyone. But she needed everyone. It was winter and it was freezing—literally freezing—and she’d been walking along this coastline for days, the tips of her fur glued together with ice and her paws threatened by frostbite. Hate. She hated it all. Everything. She needed no one—no one—but she’d take everyone.

She stood at the borders of this new pack, up on these cliffs overlooking the crashing sea, the tang of salt in her nose and on her tongue, and tipped back her head and howled. Fiercer than she needed to. Listen to me.

The tone was sharp, but the meaning was clear, so Rosalyn answered without hesitation.  She had few qualms these days about the borders, and when she met Elvira, it was with mild curiosity and low-burning annoyance.

You demand a presence?  She asked casually.  Her one eye took in the woman while she did so, and it's measure belied her tone.  She might not be worried, but that did not mean she was not prepared.  If this woman sought trouble she would find her share here.  Bold.  Stupid, in some places.  

She was lucky that the pirate had some measure of her humor today.  It had been a rare thing lately.

The woman who came to her was older and battle-scarred. Intimidating. A queen, Elvira assumed, who ruled her dominion with an iron hand. Her words twisted Elvira’s expression. She hated being talked down to, reprimanded. Still, demanding the presence of a queen had probably been a stupid move. She inclined her head in a show of respect, though her golden eyes lingered on the older woman’s countenance. “Have I offended you?” she purred. “Forgive me. It’s been a hard winter, and I’ve little patience—though, perhaps I should be more careful around one so…” Her eyes danced around the woman’s frame, moving from scar to scar. “… Seasoned. You look as if you’ve outlived many enemies, Your Majesty. I say this, of course, with the utmost respect. Scars can be very beautiful—and intimidating.”

One of two things would happen, now, Elvira guessed. Either her flattery would work or she would be reminded, probably quite rudely, that flattery—sometimes—got her nowhere.

Rosalyn was too cynical to see her flattery as anything but empty.  She let out a laugh, then shook her head, now clearly and openly amused.  Seasoned is one way to put it.  Old, she thought, with just a shade of regret.  Hard to catch offense from a stranger.  But I appreciate the compliments.  Empty or not, they'd made her laugh and she was lighter for it.

Rosalyn couldn't catch a pack scent, but that meant little. Travel and the winter chill could fade that easily.  She settled back, less wary and more interested now.  I assume you aren't here for nothing.  If you were sent to tell us to move, I can save you some breath.  But if you are looking for a spot to stay...  She trailed off, the statement becoming more of a question with the pause.  Was she here on business or was she here for survival?