Silence reigned inside of Ptolema's war tent.
She pursed her lips, staring at Agathe as she smiled back awkwardly.
This girl...
"...Anyroad, don't call me Leader anymore," Ptolema sighed, shaking her head.
"Right... Sorry," Agathe bowed again. "It's a force of habit. But real talk? I hate the naming sense. 'Sons' of Qotal.' 'Scarmother.'"
"The reports, woman?" Ptolema tapped her finger against the planning table.
If she didn't stop her, she'd babble until morning.
"Yes, Scarmother," Agathe smiled with chagrin.
Ptolema glanced through the pieces of parchment. She felt an oncoming headache, trying to read them. Their scouts were technically illiterate, so it was a pain to parse the mashed up, phonetically-spelled words.
