She had made the decision to leave the Rise some days ago, but the question of when lingered in brain. Soon, she knew in her heart, but trepidation kept Miskwaa from making any rash decisions. They could always return if the world outside the red-flowered meadow was not all they had hoped it to be, Miskwaa knew, but she was not the sort of woman who enjoyed wasting time. At present, however, her own deliberations kept her close to their temporary den, trying — and failing — to conserve her energy as she paced restlessly about. Estimations on how long it would take to get to their destinations, calculations on how far they could get before needing to stop for sustenance, contingency plans in case something went wrong...

Miskwaa would have been content to spend the remainder of the day in this fashion, brows knit and shoulders hunched but a sudden call tugged at her attention. Golden eyes flickered upward, brows raising in a surprised sort of curiosity as she surveyed her uncle in his approach. There was a ringing note of anxiety to his words that made her stiffen, but as he drew nearer and his orange eyes met her gold... She laughed, doing precisely what he had told her not to do. The sound was nothing more than a sharp bark, a loud ha! which was hard to ignore in a place so tranquil as Fireweed Rise. The sound was peculiar coming from Miskwaa and the accompanying expression — smug and amused — seemed equally out of place on her countenance.

“I'm sorry, uncle, but I believe they call that karma.” All gloating aside, she approached him slowly, studying the barbs cautiously and wondering where exactly she should begin. It occurred to Miskwaa after a moment that there really was not right answer — she'd been in his shoes and knew all too well that the pain was unavoidable. He would simply have to bear it. Gingerly, she reached forward and grabbed a quil with her teeth; she paused, allowing her uncle to prepare himself, then quickly jerked her head back and spit the barb out. Her methods were not so careful as his had been, but she hoped to lessen the pain by not dallying. In between quils, she inquired with a note of worried amusement, “How'd this happen?” 

Her rather indelicate (but at the same time precise) ministrations halted momentarily as she questioned her uncle and allowed him time to respond, momentarily turning her attention to the ground below. As he spoke, her paw brushed and stamped at the ground where she had dropped the bloodied quills, mixing them up amid the grass and dirt to ensure that they would pose no further danger to the both of them. To be quite frank, porcupines were beginning to prove quite a nuisance and if they weren't so frightening, Miskwaa may have sought to exterminate the stupid animals herself. Instead, powerless to the flurry of quills that they could unleash and knowing that pain all too well, she could only vow to be more vigilant and keep an eye out for the vermin in the future — for both her and Ziigwan's sake.

She was nearly satisfied with her work of breaking the quills up and mixing them amid the meadow floor (where they would then be harmless) when the words "Aya's hit squad" left her uncle's lips. Quite suddenly her chin jerked up and the amused grin felt, brows pulling together in an expression that she found the statement — even in jest — to be quite a serious matter. In truth, most matters of her past life — of her parents and her siblings, of their family land — she found unamusing and best left unsaid. Talk of her parents and Neche were sore spots for their own reasons: they had failed her, disappointed her, picked the side of a clueless, selfish leader. But Ayashe? Days spent groveling for food, nearly starving at her elder sister's hand had left no trace of love and only the trembling fear of someone who knew what another was capable of — if only because, although more competent, Miskwaa was capable of the very same deeds.

“She would have to try harder than that,” Miskwaa retorted bluntly with the smallest curl of her upper lip. The rusty would paused, plucking a few more barbs out from her uncle's upper lip (nearly the last on his upper jaw, quite the improvement!), all while fumbling to regain her composure. Ziigwan of all people, she reminded herself, was undeserving of her ire. Miskwaa's expression softened to a smug smirk once again and she pulled away momentarily. “We're quite a team now, you and I. The world'll have to be more creative if it wishes to conquer us, don't you think?” Normally, Miskwaa would have been more doubtful (realistic, borderline pessimistic), but she seemed to still be riding the waves of delight at her own ability to gloat; perhaps one day she would grow to regret such a careless statement. Until then, in spite of all their silly mishaps and verbal missteps, she would continue to try to be the best she could be in the presence of one of the only wolves she felt genuinely cared about her.