Femininity was not something that Salvia excelled at; she had been the (in her mind) only daughter of her parents first litter and raised by two men of indomitable wills. She had neither desired nor attempted to act coy or behave as a softer girl might, and indeed been nothing short of aggressive her whole life. Even now this behavior showed in her broad shoulders and sharp profile, which alone was the hint of coyote blood somewhere within her line.
A small and mysterious smile crossed her face at Myrika’s appraisal. “Talk is cheap,” was all she said. It was action that counted for her, and the wounds left that proved such a thing. The scar on her breast was proof of such deeds, though she saw others who had walked away without signs upon them. Everyone had come home bloodied from that final fight, and it had not mattered then where the combatants had called home. She curled her hand close, rubbing the final bits of salt free, and met Myrika’s turquoise gaze once more. “We will come trade soon,” she promised, and smiled once more.
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