Kire wrinkled her nose at Ysaryn’s answer. She looked to her friend, already snoring softly on the bed. “Ah, is that so? Let me just put a pillow to her face and smother her while she’s asleep,” she muttered, turning towards the elf again. She blushed furiously at Ysaryn’s teasing. “Well, my tongue is just fine, I should like to say, but I don’t have much opportunity to actually prove it,” she said, pouting, crossing her arms. “I can—maybe count them on one hand. A few more, if you also count those that never quite made it to bed. Though the first one is forgettable enough not to count.” She grimaced again at that, then lay down on her cot, hands behind her head, frowning for a moment when she couldn’t feel the Ring against her skin. “I was Chieftess for sixty years, practically still a girl when I started. It’s—difficult. And even now, when I no longer am, it still is.” She remembered their brief conversation about marriage before, and sighed. “You’re Chieftess. I imagine it’s somewhat the same for you, isn’t it?”