Swiftcurrent Creek flute

the fire was coming for her. muskrat had seen it happen to other women; she had seen it swell them with new life.

but for warriors, it was different and always had been. a hard belly and a soft one meant life or death during a raid. those carrying children did not raid, and parenthood removed them from the warrior camp for a long time. sometimes they chose not to return.

muskrat had no interest in this fate befalling her. not only was she a warrior, she was bound to her craft. the swamp panther healers had their own medicines, none of which were here. seclusion was best, then, and it included the night man, though her attraction had been distracted now by her resolution to avoid pregnancy.

she had hunted two hares for the new mother and left them in the vicinity of the den, though she dared not even approach its clearing. she ate the last fish from her cache and hung its bones over the deer-skull: a sign she would be back. brashly she did not call for @Akavir or @Arric or @Arlette; muskrat stealthily stole from the creek and only then did she tilt her head back to announce that she wanted to try hunting in the mountains, to strengthen her leg.

they would not expect her return for some days, she hoped, yellow eyes glinting once before she moved off in a smooth gait only slightly marked now by a hitch.