With her children halfway to reaching their first year, the mother dove was afforded the ability to range beyond their borders more frequently. She hoped to find evidence of returning plant life though it was still too cold for such things and to determine how the prey near their village had been affected by the plague. With Sivullik becoming a mother, she would need to help provide for the pack as they had when she fell on hard times the season before. 

A light snow fell as she loped across the plains, dusting the cloudberry woman in a spackling of ivory. The she-wolf slowed as neared the tangle of the bramblewood, breath puffing from her lungs in a white cloud of vapor. Peridots flitted across the trees, the forest dormant and still beneath a blanket of white. The artist sniffed at the tracks of a young goat, head dipping earthwards as she determined it had passed through recently. 

The smell of an unfamiliar man accompanied the scent of goat, causing her to hesitate -- feet shifting uncertainly as she cast a wary glance around. 

Squaring her slim shoulders, second wife tugged the deer hide closer around her for warmth as she plowed onwards -- determined that not all strangers, not all men, could be necessarily bad. Aiolos, Inutsuk, Foxfur. They were all good, honorable men. Perhaps this one was too. 

Following the trail, Lótë felt her heart jump into her throat in spite of her bravado when she finally happened upon the pale figure. For a moment, she halted in her tracks. The ruby of his gaze was a comfort however, causing her to take a few more hesitant steps before she stopped a respectable distance from the he-wolf's kill -- not wanting the stranger to think she was here to scavenge. 

"I greet you, hunter," the Nuiruk dipped her head in a slight nod. "I am..Aiwë," she dallied only a moment, not certain she should give him the name Moonglow knew her as. 

"I'm sorry to trouble you," she continued with a small, apologetic smile, "but I came to the forest to see how the game fared with the sickness that has swept the land. Do you happen to know if any of the large grazers on the steppes have been afflicted?" 

The herbalist did not yet realize the man was mute as her own daughter was, waiting patiently for a reply with her ears cocked forward. 

For a moment, the herd-stalker's ears twitched and her brow flickered with confusion as the ivory he-wolf dipped low with a yap but did not speak. A heartbeat later, understanding smoothed the perplexed wrinkles of her expression. "Ah," she breathed gently. 

"You are one who does not speak," she murmured, offering him a small smile. "My daughter was born without the ability to make sound as well." Lótë wondered silently if the man could mouth his words as Wilwarin did, or if perhaps he spoke the same sign language her family was learning, but did not ask for the sake of propriety. 

"May I?" she wisped tentatively, gesturing towards his kill with a dip of her tawny diadem. "I will not take your meal, I only wish to smell it for sickness." The dove clarified as she tiptoed closer, eyeing Shiranui for signs of aggression. 

Granted that the garnet-eyed male allowed her close enough to sniff his kill, Lótë would edge closer and lower her head before taking a few whiffs. If he reacted with territorialism, the doe would flit away and dart back through the woods to safety. 

Lótë offered him a grateful smile as she bent over the kill, relieved that she found no hint of the bitter smell of sickness clinging to it -- only the salt of blood and the musk of the he-wolf who'd slain it. "It does not appear to have been ill," she murmured to the brumal hunter. 

"Thank you," Lótë met his gaze as she backed away from the remains, feeling as though she could sense the red fingers of his gaze brushing along her skin. It was not entirely unpleasant, albeit intense. 

"Is there anyway I might repay your kindness? Anything I could do to help you in return?" It was the way of her homeland to return favors.