Blackfeather Woods Wyrd

A name alone had been uttered, and with it had come the acquirement of his son’s curiosity. He was thrilled, in all honesty, for he’d never been able to share the tales of the Inuit with anyone other than Xan. Now, however, it seemed as if another one of his sons was interested in the stories of his culture, and so Kove would not deprave him of them. He had decided ahead of time, though, that it was best to keep things simple for the time being. He could always go into greater detail once the boy was older—he could also share the stories of far more deities and creatures once Keelut was no longer so small, which he looked forward to.

“Tulugaak,” the man began. “Pinngutik kaumak.” It was ironic, almost, that the creator of light had a name that represented such a dark bird. “SiKini takujan, tigusijuk,” he explained, glancing up towards the birds as he did so. One had grasped the skin-wrapped sun within his beak, tore it free, and then sent it up into the sky so that daylight could be created. Now, though, the birds existed as symbols of darkness.