Sequoia Coast Crumble like a temple, built from future daughters.

cen did not care for the way this man stared at his wife, and stepped forward as if to obscure the stranger's view of her frightened red eyes.
"we do not speak the language of one another." the caribou hunter spoke in a voice that said this was known, and nodded, and turned toward red leaf with a long, tight inhale of pure frustration, this flicker in his nostrils the only sign of it. cen was pleased she had been so silent, but angered at his inability to communicate.
but she had learned. she would know.
he pulled away from her now, sharply; he grabbed up their worst hide and tossed it gently to the ground at the feet of the dreamer.
his eyes they gleamed with a luster that was unnatural, and the sight of them almost forced his hackles to rise.
"trade." red leaf's sharadoii body needed rest. and cen, he wanted to count the herds. how could he do that with a scared valley-wife who did not yet know how to be alone in the great plains? it was an excuse too for him to sleep. but more than either of these things, and this cen did not communicate, was that witches were said to live in the frost of the snowy ghostlands.
was this one before him?
against all lanzadoii notion, indeed, all caribou sentiment, cen wanted to learn these things. oh! cen was a caribou hunter man. but not all caribou hunter men were like cen. ”trade,” he said again. the scents of blood and what he thought was milk drifted beyond the tall man in the doorway. ”he has a wife,” he muttered to red leaf. ”and she has children.”