Telling Tembovu her choice had been a killer, and she'd felt like a complete coward for letting him down. Yet she knows she hadn't worn the rank well, and hadn't acted in a manner befitting of a General. Sure, she sparred and kicked plenty of asses, but she hardly went to the Threshold, hardly spoke with her warriors, didn't attempt to create any herd fortifications, and she'd made a complete tit of herself in the meeting when she'd spoken out about Alysanne. The Edge can do so much better than her.

The reason she gave was that she wanted to spend more time with her children, and indeed, that was part of the reason. She's been a close mother to Arakh and Esinakh, and without a list of duties weighing her down, she's been able to dedicate much more time to them. But that had only been part of the reason - truly, she didn't think she was capable. Somebody else could hold the rank with much greater success than her, so she'd handed it back.

It also hasn't escaped her notice that she isn't getting any younger. The changing of the seasons brought with it Nyx's eleventh birthday, and damn, she feels old. For the first time, she's noticed the cold creeping into her bones, making her ache and walk gingerly upon stiff legs. Old battlewounds seem to throb as the frigid air tickles them with its cold fingers, and fresh injuries are taking longer to heal. The ironheart truly never thought she'd get old; she'd always pictured herself forever young, not plagued by the aches and pains of age. She's far from decrepit, not quite over the hill yet, but she's sure as hell on the precipice of the hill - the only way is down from here.

The silver usually adores winter, but with her newfound pains she's actually finding it a bit of a chore. She's never been able to look at Frostfall in the same way since she gave birth during it, and remembers well the toll it took on her body. She's trying to find some decent grazing beneath a layer of snow when she hears the call; HEY, WHO THE FUCK FIGHTS AROUND HERE? Her ears pin at the loudness and brusqueness of the voice, although she's really not one to judge about swearing.

The grey mare turns and heads towards the call, alone due to Dominus being off hunting. The one who made it isn't somebody she recognises - she's a small thing, young, with patches of blue across her body and a tufty mane and tail. "I fight," she says, fixing the smaller woman with her curious blue gaze. "Nyx, Captain," she introduces.