The herdstalker wandered, dyed paws muddied nearly up to the knees from work in her gardens -- a task that had been stilled by the rainfall and the threat of snow. She'd meant her footfalls to lead her to one of the trickling mountain streams hidden in the blackpine of the Spine's upper ring, or maybe to the lake in its depths, to clean her fur but when she passed close to the Moon's den and smelt a fresh scent trail, the herbalist thought to stop and say hello.
She was curious to learn more about the wisewoman who led them, and the culture she shared with her raindrop daughter -- for she felt that her own native tribe held similarities, that their peoples might have been cousins if not sisters. There had been interesting furs, far better than Aiwëndil's crude workings, and other trinkets scattered amongst the shadows of the ulaq the first time she'd seen it, but the duo had been in mourning and it hadn't been appropriate to visit or compare methods of hide-working.
Wandering closer, the mouse called out softly, with some hesitance -- hoping not to disturb Kukutux if she was busy.
Her head dipped as Kukutux approached, repeating the soft words on an untrained tongue that fumbled slightly -- though she did not grasp their meaning. That was alright; she felt she could almost sense the spirit of Kukutux's words even if she couldn't always translate them. Her pale peridots followed the Moon's gesture and slid back to the pelts within her ulaq as the wisewoman explained, dipping her head in understanding as she fell back from the threshold and moved to walk alongside the pallid lady.
"Would you mind teaching me? We cured hides in my homeland but yours are much finer," the artisan praised in the soft-spoken way a woman might from her homeland -- appreciative and subtle.
no worries! the tags have been difficult!
a nod, a gentle sound of assent in her throat. "it was the same in the village of my birth," the moon said softly. "there was always one who carried new life," she said softly. "my mother was irnisiksiiji. many went to her when it was time to dance their babies into the world. and men did not enter our circle."
a time for remembering. "it will be so here."
they would need to carry four rocks back to the ulaq; she lifted one and set their path back.
when they had arrived once more, kukutux set down her burden. "we have an allied one. village duskfire. wintersbane is their hunter. i have offered that he sends his healers to us, so we may teach them old medicines. we wil trade between us."
The two-year listened, as was her habit in any company, though the words of how things would be the same here gave the cloudberry a mental pause. Would Adrastus not be allowed near when she whelped then -- given that they did wed and she conceived? Lótë felt a fretful anxiety grip her for a moment, ears drifting back in a slow droop, but willed it away as she continued to help the moonwoman in her task. It was a problem for another day, one far into the future.
Twice, she followed the wisewoman from the lake to the ulaq, helping to move the stones until they had what was required of Kukutux's craft. The next string of words drew the dove's evergreen peridots and fawnskin auds alike towards the duck, interest glimmering in the pale jade gems. "Is their village close by?" She wondered idly, thinking she might go visit their allies sometime and trade stories like Raimo had spoken of in his homeland.
She felt a dive of crestfallen disappointment at the matchmaker's words. Too far for convenient travel, especially when there was so much to be done in their own village. Even now that the ulax was peppered with the dwellings of new faces and their caches were full with the efforts of her comrades, the deerstalker hunted and worked her hides as best she could. There were other things too: her ambitions to record the history of Moonglow, the cultivation of her herb garden, and the possibility of studying pregnancy and midwifery with Kukutux and Sialuk in the near future. Perhaps in the fall, if any children she brought to Adrastus' hearth were old enough for her to travel from them for a length of time, before the cold set in.
"Such men rarely do," the two-year jested lightly in return, grinning mischievously as her thoughts turned to the brumal sivullik. Wintersbane appeared in her mind as another form of the man she admired: responsible, kind, nurturing. It didn't seem far fetched that the dove should come to respect their allies' leader, given that she found a chance to meet him someday.
The mouse felt she should be doing something, assisting in some way. But the moonwife's methods differed greatly from her own, she had never before used her jaws and teeth to scrape away the tissue of the fur's underside -- and there was truly no way to help without getting in Kukutux's way. Sometimes, it was more beneficial to simply stay out of the way.
Her ears perked with the leader's question, a rueful expression overtaking her dimpled features. "Some, but I must admit that I don't remember the words." A lie, tumbling from her lips with no small measure of guilt. She could hear the words but they were sung in her mother's voice; this she was not quite ready to share.
"We had a few great poets though," she supplied, hoping this might suffice. There were many beautiful ballads and compositions from her native tribe, all that were surely safe enough to reveal.
"Aya," the word fell from her lips naturally as she responded, evergreen orbs going wide as the soft sound died -- a hint of apology in the surprised peridots as they sought Kukutux's. She must've picked the word up from the moonwife but she hoped it wouldn't offend the Alpha to hear the cloudberry accidentally slipping into the matchmaker's mother tongue. "I mean, yes. But they are spoken rather than sung," she explained, her tones soft as the clover creeping along the forest floor.
"Many poems are about nature. Many more are about love," she smiled, gaze flitting to the process that Kukutux used to treat the fur -- committing it to memory so she might try it sometime. It would take longer and her jaw would surely be sore but it seemed worth it, her furs would be softer if she could remove more of the stiff rawhide.
"My favorite ones are those that are sad...or the ones that speak to some piece of the soul," she tried to explain it but couldn't be quite sure she was successful. Those compositions that whispered to some poignantly lonely and aching corner of her heart -- the place where emotions resided mayhaps.
Elenwë's daughter listened, raptly so. The more she learned about Kukutux and the culture she'd been raised in, the more she wanted to know. It was beautiful, the things she spoke of -- not just this concept of hidden names. "Do you believe we all have those names or is it just wolves from your tribeland?" Lótë asked curiously, silently wondering how she might find out what her own spirit name was if she had one. It was then that a thought struck her, with no small measure of surprise tinting it.
She had a secret name already. How easy it was to immerse herself in the woman she had become, cloudberry and greenpaw to the moonwife she had come to adore. So easy, too easy, to forget the girl she had been. "Do you share these names with others or is it something sacred?"
Should she tell her friend, tell someone at least? Or would it be taboo of her to speak of the identity she'd once possessed?
Lótë drank the answer in, accepting it with a minute nod. Perhaps she had not been raised in Kukutux's culture and her spirits did not hear the voice of a foreigner. Maybe the dove's could not hear Kukutux's. But it was best to be safe and avoid mentioning the names of any departed loved ones, or her own former name -- her true name.
Her mother's secret name came to her readily. Starbrow. Softpelt-singer. Her own spirit was not so easily captured beyond being Aiwë, daughter to Elenwë, perhaps she would need to meditate on it further when she was alone.
The herd-watcher wanted to ask who Sedna was but she could hear the exhaustion in the Moon's rainfall octaves. The aspiring ecologist figured she was fatigued, that her injury still tired her out easily. Instead, she fell into a companionable silence -- offering the murmured words of one of her favorite poems before the two parted ways. A glimpse into she had been before Lótë, even if she could not share it all with her tribe-sister.
Rummaging through winter borne woods,
a touch of spring somehow evades her,
the little ragwort-picker.