Moonsong Glacier The spruces rough in the distant glitter

she'd overheard talk amongst the rabble of routine conversation that a woman who knew of pelts and the preservation of them lived upon the glacier.

she'd not sought the woman out yet, but her interest in the craftsmanship of the furs was peaked as tall as the glacier itself. she would desire such hides when the time came to deliver her children.

it was by a stroke of luck that the assumed skin-weaver came waltzing near, draped in the finery of her handiwork like a street merchant.

the viper slithered near, gaze flickering between pelt and maker. "you are the peltsmith?" she questioned with a structured tone to her voice.