Herbalists' Cache rook's rest

after this maybe? vague timeline @Ayovi :D

the cold clung to her like grief.
morwenna moved with purpose, though her steps were quieter now, tempered by the weight of everything that had just transpired. skorpa’s words echoed in her mind, his presence lingering like an unwanted specter. ayovi had spoken with understanding, with something softer, and though morwenna would not admit it aloud, she had needed that. but she did not trust easily—could not afford to.
still, she led the huntress forward, away from the clearing, toward the place where she had hidden what mattered most.
the wind pulled at her fur, threading through the thick silver and white strands, carrying the scent of her children with it. she glanced over her shoulder, pale eyes catching on ayovi’s form. the woman was a shadow behind her, steady but unfamiliar in the way all outsiders were.
you're quite far along yourself, aren't you? morwenna asked suddenly, voice quiet but firm.
she did not slow, did not reveal her destination just yet, but she wanted to know. wanted to hear what this woman believed, if she thought fate was something written or something made.

Ayovi follows behind the woman she’d learned was called Star Eater, who’d pulled her from the camps to bring her somewhere more private. The huntress is grateful. The strain around their settlement is unbearable, and not for the first time Ayovi debates the wisdom of this choice. She and Skorpa had adamantly refused to support Faust’s pursuit of blood— but they knew nothing of Saatsine— only that the clan had presented itself favorably in the tri-pack council. And unlike Daruukal, they had something to lose.
“I am,” she offers, though without more insight. It was again a reminder of the sacrifice she and her husband made to be here, and a reminder of why they were.

morwenna moved with care, each step silent but sure in the snow, like a queen who knew the weight of what followed her. and behind her, ayovi—a woman she had once met with quiet fondness, whose presence now stirred something more complicated.
i must apologize, she began, voice hushed but steady, turning her head just enough for their eyes to meet, for raising my voice at your husband.
a pause. she breathed out, not shame, but restraint.
it was not proper. especially not beside his wife.
the apology hung in the cold air, honest, but still cloaked in her pride. morwenna did not offer apologies often, but she was not above them when they were due.
before them, the snow parted gently to reveal the mouth of the den. she gestured toward it, letting the stillness speak for a moment as the hush of infant breath pulsed faintly from within.
you were kind to us, when we first met, she said next, softer. you did not have to be. but you were. and for that— her voice thinned just slightly, but her words did not fail—thank you.
morwenna stood guard beside the shelter like a lioness beside her cubs. poised. proud. but not cold. never to the women who walked with dignity. her eyes found ayovi’s once more.

“He is a good man,” she speaks with the same protectiveness she feels. The exchange had colored her view of the chieftain’s wife, reinforced her guard among the dueling sides of the caribou hunters, but neither would she expect a woman grappling with violence between husband and sister to be a consummate diplomat. Wherever he was, she knew Skorpa was conducting himself with the same vigilance among the chief’s hunters.
When Star Eater brings her to a warren in the snow, the huntress’ pace slows to a gentle pad, ears swiveling to greet a chorus of tiny coos, eyes widening as they touch upon the impossibly tiny bodies in the warm dark. She aches for these children she does not know, who have no voices in this matter of war. Their fragile lives were what mattered now.
Ayovi does not draw forward into the birthing den, her firm indigo gaze instead meeting with Star Eater. 
“We want what any parent in the taiga wants: safety for our children.” Such was the design behind the mountain's call for peace, and why it's failure stung like fire.

morwenna’s gaze held steady as ayovi spoke—indigo meeting starlight. there was no malice in her now, only a worn gravity born of sleepless nights and the aching weight of motherhood.
i believe you, she murmured, voice soft as snowfall. skorpa did not raise tooth when i expected him to. he held the storm at bay. that is a rare thing in a man.
a beat. her eyes drifted toward the shelter of the warren, where the muffled coos of newborns bloomed like spring beneath the frost.
that is all i wish, too.
then quieter, more to herself than the other woman, but i am not sure the snow is where i will find it.
her breath left her like smoke from a dwindling flame. perhaps there is no place untouched. she turned back to ayovi then, and in her eyes was not defeat—but resolve. but i must, a plume of her breath, a mother's duty.

“I’m finding it’s a rare thing in the North,” comes Ayovi’s wry reply. The ego of both man and woman had proven as temperamental as their season’s blizzards. But it felt good to smile, even if in irony.
“May I?” She asks Star Eater before peering deeper into the den. The pups are so small in their mustered dreamings— are newborns always so tiny and she’d merely forgotten? They seemed so breakable, like a wind alone could fell them. And the world was filled with much more than wind. Ayovi counts four heads in various shades of ebony and ice. “They are beautiful,” she grins, a true one.
“You will take them into the South?” She asks, turning back to the mother then. “You know Darukaal and Saatsine. Do you think the clans are capable of talking terms?”
The huntress did not take Faust nor Blackfell as men to negotiate, and Sun Eater desired his own bloodlust. But looking upon the newborn lives Ayovi seeks Star Eater’s mind all the same.

morwenna’s lips curved, soft and faint, not quite joy—too burdened for that—but gratitude, solemn and full. thank you, she murmured, voice hushed with wear. she shifted just slightly, allowing ayovi further into the small, warm den where her children slept, nestled and safe—for now.
anywhere, she answered, low. anywhere that i can see them safe.
there was a pause, heavy as breath.
i want— a swallow, thick in her throat, i want them all to see the sun rise.
her eyes did not leave her children. i do not think they can here.
the truth lived in the edge of her voice—soft and steady, but ringing with the cracks of knowing. she blinked slowly, jaw tightening just once before relaxing again. those men, she said, have no women to quell them.
a glance toward the den’s mouth, toward the snowed wild that waited outside. faust is unwed. gjalla cannot hold blackfell back. he is cruel in the way men are when no one ever stopped them.
then, gentler, but colder too: and i have failed against my own.
a long silence stretched between them before she looked again to ayovi. there will be no peace between them. not truly. one wants control. the other wants legacy. and none of them want to kneel.
she exhaled. such is the toil of men. so i will not wait for them to see sense. i will not ask them for it. i will carry my children south when the time is right. far enough from all of it. not for war, not for pride. for dawnlight.
for the next morning. for life. for them.

Faust was more than a bachelor waiting to be softened by a feminine hand; Ayovi remembers how she had been cowed into submission. How her fate was demonstrated on the shredded bark of pine should she refuse. Old scars on tender pink feet, forced to travel. He was a dangerous man. Darukaal was a danger. From what Ayovi can tell, Star Eater has parted from one violent man to throw her lot in with another, and why? Because she was bound by her sister’s marriage to Blackfell?
“No—” Ayovi shakes her head, adamant now, “I tire of this being a woman’s problem. It is a woman’s responsibility to raise children, not men. The Darukaal are cruel, and not because they cannot be controlled. I fear you’re right. There is no capacity for words when men want only to prove their supremacy in blood,”  she exhales sharply, gaze flicking over the children’s sleeping backs.
“The farther from here, the safer they will be.”

morwenna exhales, slow.
at least there is some sense in us left, she says, her voice soft, not dulled but resigned. there is no venom there—only understanding, sharpened by too many winters spent surviving. she turns her gaze toward the sleeping children, their small forms still tucked in warmth, oblivious to the world that simmers beyond them. the war that always seems just out of reach, then suddenly upon you.
she breathes through her nose, then asks what she hates to ask, what feels like a wound to her pride.
if… a pause. her throat works. if it comes to it, ayovi. would you conceal where we went? your husband the exception—
she does not expect a lie. she does not expect loyalty bought or sworn by oath. only the truth—delivered woman to woman, as it always must be.
but...from him? sun eater.

Ayovi is witness to true fear in the face of the mother, one mirrored in the pull of her own safeguarding flesh. She had not come to choose sides, but it was too late for that, wasn’t it? What she had seen was a mother desperate to protect her children, and the huntress pulls in close, lowering her voice to the breath of a private whisper.
“If you wish to move your children, I believe you should go. Do not tell me where or when, and then I will have no need to lie to your Chieftain. But Star Eater. If you seek someplace safe until war passes, find the northernmost mountain and ascend her peak. None will touch you there.”

morwenna turned to the pale huntress, eyes rimmed with the weight of sleepless nights, yet clear with purpose. she drank in the woman’s whisper like sacred water—saw not just a gesture, but a gift of trust in it. a way forward. a sliver of safety in the storm that gathered around them.
you have my gratitude, she said, voice hushed but unwavering. it was not simply thanks, but a vow laced behind the words.
her gaze drifted, if only for a moment, toward the hidden place where her children slept. and then, to the mountains. she imagined them—vast, still, eternal. she would climb them if she must. die on them, if she must. but her children would not fall to war.
i will remember your words, ayovi, she murmured. and i will not forget the kindness you’ve shown me.
not in this life. not in the next.

They were words of a small consolidation; for the mother to be held safe within the cradle of Winsook she must first reach it. The woman expresses gratitude but the air her children breathes is tense still. A wolf is not made to go into motherhood alone. The huntress hopes she had a strong network of support behind her.
Ayovi looks into the dark mask and sees worry; betrayal. A being who feels many things, but most clearly resolve.
She was not good at this, at putting people at ease. And so she wouldn’t. Her offering is only a touch of paw to the tip of ebony. But her eyes are clear, and in them the mother would see where her compassion lived.
“Stay safe, Star Eater,” Ayovi whispers, a tightening to her lips.

morwenna met her touch with quiet grace, the edges of her eyes softening as they held ayovi’s.
a pause.
then a smile bloomed—small, but steady. the kind of smile worn by women who’ve seen too much and carry it well.
and you, she said simply, voice a hush in the glen.
she did not chase her as she turned to go. did not call her back. she only watched, breathing deep the scent of cold pine and the faint memory of another mother’s strength.
then she turned to her children, and laid with them.