Dawnlark Plains please don't dress in black when you're at his wake

fluid timeline.

The desire to flee from the Saatsine came in the morning, pre-dawn, as she was roused from a particularly dark dream. The spasm of anxiety which pulsed through her, lifting her to her feet and causing her to extricate herself from Cen's sleeping-place, fueled her jolting run in to the wetlands.

Once there she felt the equally overwhelming urge to urinate, and did—but the smell of this, coupled with her internal upset, caused her stomach to churn. Up came last evening's scraps with a flourish of bile. As she licked her lips clean she looked tentatively over one shoulder as if to gauge her surroundings for danger.

It had been in her head — it had only been a dream. The everdark was far, far from here. And, yet...

silatuyok emerged from the frost-brushed grasses like a low wind, her coat touched by stone and bone. the dark-coated woman was already there, the earth soured faintly by bile and unrest, but silatuyok did not mind it. did not fear it.
she approached slowly, head level with her shoulders, her tail waving with ease—a show of softness, of no threat. her ears turned, pricked forward in quiet interest, and her pale, pale eyes studied the shape of the woman as if trying to place her scent among old ones in memory.
a soft chuff rose in her throat—breathy. she made no move to close the space entirely, but hovered there like a moth drawn to ember.
if the stranger fled, she would not chase. if she stayed, silatuyok might press her muzzle gently to her shoulder, snuff at her fur to drink in her scent. but for now, she only stood and waited, calm as frozen riverbed.

What eddies of dreamthought lingered inside of her, evaporating as the hot bile sank in to soil, left behind only the twisted feeling in her gut. That something was wrong, maybe; not strong enough to bring true fear, but a bitterness that festers.

A pale figure lingers in her periphery. At first she does not see, because she is distracted by this physical strangeness spoiling in her gut, but she notices eventually, affixing her stare upon the stranger woman on cue with their chuff.

This is not a woman she knows. They do not look the part of a caribou hunter, nor do they carry the scent of her uncle; maybe Darukaal? No, nothing there, either. The unease does not lift from her—but Sulukinak turns again to the dirt and retches.

silatuyuok watched the brown woman wretch with a flick of her tongue, nostrils flaring as the sharp scent of bile cut through the morning frost. she had not crept close with ill intent—only instinct. the smell of sickness stirred something old in her. something animal.
her body moved before thought did—gangly limbs striding fast across the snow, tail tucked low as her head swept close to the other’s flank, sniffing with frantic, fluttering breaths. no blood. no open wounds. her teeth did not chatter with fever. siamiituuq circled her once, a loose spiral, ears pressed flat in puzzlement.
then her muzzle dipped to the churned-up dirt and bile, nostrils twitching. a low, throaty hum left her chest.
eh— she croaked suddenly, voice thick, unused, scraping the back of her throat. she made a face and spat once in the snow, frustrated, before trying again.
eh... shki? sick?
the word sick came like breath through her teeth, sharp and broken in her dialect—a shard of Kītsanē, the sacred tongue warped by urgency.
she did not wait for answer. instead, she gently nosed at the woman’s side again, searching—pressing her snout briefly to her belly, her throat, her face. soft little whines crept from her throat like moths stirred from old bark.
not blood. not wound. not heat.
then she stilled.
tilted her head.
ears forward.
pregnant?
her eyes flicked up, wide and owlish. breath ghosted in the cold. and then—
a low chuff, softer now.
offering. asking. worried.

Not much is left to expell. Her stomach calms for the time being, however the rest of Sulukinak is clearly agitated. As the stranger circles the shadow she has the distinct image in her head of a whale herding seals; a sight from the everdark.

The stranger speaks, choppy and perhaps with a foreign lilt, and Sulukinak pales beneath her dark furs. She glimpses the wet patch of dirt that has already soaked up her bile.

Sick... She parrots, considering.

Her eye drifts to the other woman with that wild spark of a cornered animal, despite the open space they share. They hold an expression Sulukinak cannot read.

She looks to her own sides next, craning to see if her belly swells, as if it would be so sudden. A kind of sick.

silatuyok circled slow, like moon over still water—watchful, careful.
the dark woman was tense. wild. like something that had never been tamed. silatuyok understood that. she was once the same. still was, sometimes.
when the bile settled, when the shiver passed, she stepped closer—but not too close. enough that her scent, earthy and cold as moss rock, might ease the air.
she hummed low in her throat. a note from some old place, not quite a song, not quite silence.
come, she said gently, the word thick with her accent, but kind. she motioned with her nose toward the north bend of the trees. find herb.
then, softer still, she added with a twitch of her ears, “...help. her tone said what her words could not: i do not mean harm.

The woman seemed genuine, but what did she know? Sulukinak could rarely ascertain someone's intentions without more time, and she did not know this stranger any better than the Saatsine; perhaps that was why she was willing to try. When they ducked towards some trees the shadow girl gave a flick of her eyes there, and followed.

What help was being offered? Maybe this woman truly wished to settle her stomach. Maybe the 'help' would risk the harvest she grew inside—or maybe Sulukinak was getting too ahead of herself.

A little sick, a little stressed. There had certainly been many reasons for this.

The trees loomed, and the pale woman seemed to glow in the barely-lit morning mist.

silatuyok moved like mist through the snow woods—silent, glancing back now and then to be sure the wild-eyed woman still followed. she did. wary as a deer, but she came.
they passed through trees thinned by wind, limbs creaking like old spirits. ahead, the snow thinned near a fallen log half-sunk into earth. silatuyok slowed, then lowered her muzzle, sniffing through brittle stems poking from frost.
ey, she murmured, voice low, muffled by breath.
her teeth carefully tugged free a patch of flat, wide leaves, dull green edged in frost. the scent was sharp, bitter. familiar.
tuŋtuk—good for..., she said, pointing to her stomach. you chew. eh...not quick. she dropped it at the woman’s feet, backing a pace to give her space.
her head tilted. then, almost like a whisper:
you carry life?
she did not ask with judgment—only wonder. her eyes were soft. searching. as if she, too, remembered the early days of not knowing.

The woman used words that were like lanzadoii, but different. Like sunshine, but different. There were many people of the north like them and Sulukinak was slowly coming to realize the variation was immense. She did not recognize what was said, although the woman tried and struggled through a common tongue; her accent was strong, and Sulukinak figured her's would be too, for the same reason.

The leaves were familiar in that, they were like weeds in many places. They looked like any other plant to Sulukinak, but she was not taught of herbs, and saw very little value in this. Her nose wavered over the pile of leaf-litter and she sniffed, skeptical, cautious, curious.

Her bright eyes flicker up to the woman's face as she asks, you carry life?

A small nod follows—and while she is not yet comfortable enough to take the leaves, she does not refuse them either. Squinting at the woman, her shoulders tight together and her posture rigid—good, you said. Good for... this?

Or was she being tricked?