Buhh, we'll consider this official acceptance, and Kae can walk Fatin to the greenhouse/D'Neville thar, debrief her on the war, we'll end there? And then another thread after that, moar awkwardness?! 
((361))
A truly cruel type, a maniac like Haku, might have turned on her then and there—or worse, sent her to enemy lines. A reptilian part of Kaena's mind considered that possibility, considered that perhaps Haku did not know Fatin, that he did not know she was friend to the coyotes—the russet wolf did not smell of Inferni, and she could certainly pass for full-blooded canis lupus rufus. But Kaena stifled that thought with an inward shudder, for she was not Haku, and to even consider such a thing was tantamount to becoming him. She would not go there; she had come close enough with Vieira, and the taste of that sort of cruelty and viciousness was more than enough for her. The hybrid woman preferred to fight her battles face-to-face; she resorted to surreptitious sneaking only when it was warranted most, and her physical actions had no effect.
“Good,” she said, again flatly. When she spoke again, the first word was spat as if it was indeed tainted with poison. “Haku deserves nothing more than a violent and painful death of poison. But you won't need to creep through the Dampwoods looking for mold,” the coyote said, turning away from the other coyote, taking a few slow steps forward to indicate for her to follow. Part of Kae couldn't stand to gaze on the russet-hued woman anymore; she was hurt and desirous and disgusted and angry and confused all at once, and looking at her just made it worse, it simply twisted her head up more. She hadn't begun to consider what awkwardness might yet come—Vieira didn't occupy all of the room in Kae's cave, but three would be a tight squeeze—assuming Kaena was even comfortable with Fatin residing there again, which was a question the Centurion could not answer, though she asked herself inwardly directly. “Anselm's built a greenhouse, we'll grow them there. If you can cultivate plants as well as harvest...” the coyote said, trailing off. Her steps were slower than usual; some weeks-old injures plagued her body. The sixth-day fights hadn't been totally successful, no, but they'd hurt Dahlia de Mai in the process.
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