Qeya River insurgent

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the warmth of the den wrapped around star eater like a second skin, thick with the scent of dried herbs and caribou hides. winter pressed hard against the world outside, but within these walls, there was stillness. a small refuge. she stood amid it, paws sifting through the spread of plants she had gathered, her voice a quiet murmur as she counted.
five sweetdust. three bitterroot. willow bark... less than before.
her brows knit slightly. she would need to gather more soon.
beyond the den’s entrance, the faint sound of other shore’s movements reached her ears. she had been permitted to explore—but only close by. star eater had been firm on that. the girl was weak still, bones weary from exhaustion, and star eater did not take in mouths that could not pull their weight.
but there was something about her.
perhaps she was softhearted, as @Sun Eater feared. perhaps she had simply learned the burden of care. either way, she would not let the girl disappear into the cold alone again.
she turned another sprig of dried herbs over in her paw, listening, waiting.

travel has not made her weak. she has always been this way, soft and uncoordinated. it is youth which leaves her most vulnerable, naïveté which shackles her. and she is determined to break free of it, one way or another.

"what are you doing?" she interrupts, peering over the woman's shoulder. the immature squeak of her own voice gives her pause, and she grimaces before trying again.

"..may i help you, please? i promise not to be a bother." she wants to learn, wants to be included, but above all she is desperate to pull her own weight. blackfell looks at her as if she is little more than a child, and he is not wrong. it is time for her to grow up.

she takes a seat beside the woman's shoulder-- sun eater's bride, if she is correct, and silently eyes the herbs at her paws. they all look the same to her. dry, acrid, leafy. surely there is a difference she is missing?

star eater’s gaze snaps up, sharp as a blade, as the girl speaks. she does not flinch, does not soften—not yet. the scent clinging to the girl’s fur is familiar, too familiar. gjalla. blackfell.
her hackles bristle ever so slightly, but she does not rise. who is she?
you should not be so close, she says first, voice even, but firm. assessing. testing. the girl sits beside her, eyes wide with curiosity, eager but uncertain. star eater watches her for a long moment before she shifts, angling herself slightly toward the gathered herbs.
sorting. she states plainly, lifting a dried stalk between her teeth before setting it aside. her tone is cool, but not unwelcoming.
who are you? the demand is quiet, but weighty. if she is his, if she is gjalla’s, she should have a name. she should not be nameless before the chieftain's wife of the saatsine.

she backs up immediately and without complaint, offering the woman the space she so fiercely commands. her posture is curious, unassuming. she is eager, but not so brutish as her youth makes her out to be.

"i am ishmira. blackfell brought me in not long ago. i...come from far away, and i want to work. to learn." she can smell the chieftain on this woman's fur, but even if she were scentless, ishmira would know her. she sits proud and regal, commanding respect without a word spoken. she is his wife.

she watches silently as star eater moves herbs from paw to mouth to ground, eyes round as twin moons.

blackfell brought you?
star eater’s gaze lingered on the girl, sharp but not unkind. she was young—too young, perhaps, to know blackfell as anything but a name. her expression did not waver, but she studied the girl with quiet scrutiny, searching for what might have drawn him to her.
how do you know him? her words were measured, carrying the weight of something unspoken. blackfell was no easy man to follow, no simple wolf to bind one’s fate to.
but she did not press, not yet. instead, she exhaled slowly and nodded. you can help. i will teach.
she shifted the herbs between her paws, turning her attention to them. come here. watch carefully. with a motion of her muzzle, she indicated the carefully sorted plants at her feet. these are what we use for pain, for sickness, for wounds. learn them, and you will always have use.
the offer was clear. if ishmira wished to work, she would—under star eater’s eye.

"he is the first face i saw before i joined saatsine. i call him friend. he calls me annoying." she lifts her chin and smiles, confident in her ability to win him over. he is brusque, even cruel, but he has never done her harm.

star eater offers to teach her, and the girl nods excitedly, leaning forward to watch. a plethora of uses, all unique. the scent of each herb differs, albeit subtly, and she does her best to commit them to memory.

i want to be useful. i will show her.

star eater watched the young girl’s enthusiasm with a measured gaze. the eagerness was good—better than most—but eagerness without patience could sour into carelessness. she would mold her.
good. then learn. she shifted, pulling the small bundle of herbs closer between them with a careful paw. this— she nudged a dark, waxy leaf forward—is pine balm. it seals wounds and fights rot. you crush it between your teeth before pressing it to the flesh. it will sting.
she waited, watching ishmira’s eyes trace the leaf before continuing. this one—mossroot. chew it into a paste. for pain. for swelling. her voice was low but certain, a cadence of tradition and knowledge passed through her bloodline.
she leaned in slightly, allowing the girl to catch the faint, bitter scent of the root. you will know it by this smell. and by the veins—see? her paw traced the spidered lines branching from the stem.
a brief pause.
to be useful is good. but to be careful is better. a healer can kill just as swiftly as a warrior, if they are reckless. her gaze lifted, fixing ishmira with the kind of look that bore into bone. do you understand?