"I'm gonna," is automatic, good-humored contrariness running ahead of her before she's come up with the justification. That comes several seconds later. "He'll approve. He doesn't like competition."

The couch she's on, set a ways back from the fireplace, is one of the least comfortable couches she's ever sat on. A combination of form over function—animal bones replacing wood wherever possible, minimal cushioning covered in leather that'd gone stiff and flakey with age and neglect before Riftwatch moved in, antlers protruding from the back that she's only narrowly avoided catching her hair on—and age. It creaks whenever she moves a muscle, so her rearrangement of the pelt to better cocoon herself causes a small cacophony. But it hasn't fallen apart yet.

Settling again, she watches Astrid's back. She can't relate to being happier in the cold and snow at all. But she's not unhappy. She has a steaming tankard keeping her hands warm; she left one for Astrid near the fire, to keep it hot.

"It's your turn," might not be true. Maybe she's trying to cheat her way into hearing an extra story.