(--) there must always be a stark lykoi in winterfell inferni
Myrika is by Kiri!
The redhead watched him light up the joint, slender and looking very much like a fingerbone, with her ears pressed against her head. She still did not understand, but there was still Kaena, lingering behind her like a ghost. She was, in a way, some last bastion of old Inferni and the old ways, traditions and beliefs Myri would never fully comprehend. She gaped at him when he spoke, jaws parting for a long moment. Her tongue swept out over her muzzle nervously, and she shook her head, unwilling to believe it.
Me? No, she said, almost stammering the words out. Vesper? Ithiel? Kaena, even -- not me, she pleaded. She wasn't a leader -- she could never hold Inferni together as all the canines before her had. She was no coyote to rally behind -- tall and awkward and unsure of herself, she had no ability to lead. Surely Zeke saw this -- surely, he meant to give it to someone else. There was the ghost at her shoulder again, grinning that terrible fearsome grin.
Vesper is no Lykoi, and Ithiel is no leader, and I am too old, the scarred hybrid said softly. It needs to be you. Myri looked helplessly, miserably, at her grandmother and then her cousin, seeming to wilt beneath the one-eyed gaze and the golden gaze, shrouded as it was behind flaxen hair.
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