Nova Peak ❇ Sóóts'ii

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silatuyok moved with small, reverent steps, her head bowed to the weight of her offering. the white fox pelt, soft as snowfall, was draped over her shoulders, its fur scented richly with cedar oils and the faint, golden touch of mumflower. it trailed behind her like fog, swaying with the rhythm of her careful gait.
she searched for @Vhagar quietly, paws whispering through the grass. her breath rose in soft plumes as she neared the place he often walked, ears perked and heart steady.
she called gently, voice no louder than the wind. a whimper. she awaited where he'd sprout from.

the scent of white sage and sweetgrass tickles his nostrils, carried upon the wind ... announcing silatuyok's approaching presence before her call does. but vhagar waits, steps pausing as he pretends to survey the the in the guise of really letting her catch up to him. and she does with a wind whisper call.
his gaze moves to her, taking in the white fox pelt draped across her shoulders, the scent of cedar and some sort of flora he couldn't place mingling with her own scent.
silatuyok, he greets, her name a soft purl from his throat as he offers her his full and undivided attention.

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silatuyok’s ears cupped forward at the sound of her name, spoken in a way that made her breath hitch. soft. reverent. as if he already knew what she brought before she said a word.
she stepped closer, careful in her movements, delicate like wind crossing snow. the white fox pelt slipped from her shoulders with the motion, and she gathered it gently in her teeth before laying it down between them. the scents of cedar and mum oil bloomed anew as it met the earth.
for you, she said simply, her voice low and shy as her gaze flicked to his paws. to keep warm.

a gift. she does not name it as such but it is clearly a gift meant for him, as she slips it from her shoulders and lays it onto the earth betwixt them, speaking that it was to keep him warm. gaze studies the snow white fur for a moment, bowing his head to take in the scents she had added to it. to hide, perhaps, that vhagar does not know what to say.
he could not recall the last time someone'd given him a gift ... if ever.
and then there is the war between the knowledge that pharaoh's were often showered in gifts and gratitude. like two warring armies within him, his mind and conscious their battleground.
his head lifts, gaze taking her in slowly. she is lovely. lovely to look at; basked in a lovely aura. good. warm. and bask in it he wanted to, in the hopes that some of it might rub off on him, or to consume.
ammit's hunger was not unknown to vhagar; kin as they were even if fractionally. even if it was just one of many stories spun to make the bloodline appear elite by his pharaoh-father.
thank you. it is lovely.

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silatuyok’s ears dipped back at his praise, her head bowing low to hide the way warmth colored her face. the compliment, spoken in his deep timbre, settled into her chest and stayed there. she did not know what she had expected—perhaps silence, or a polite nod—but lovely made her stomach twist in a way that was both pleasant and unsteady.
i am glad, she murmured, voice barely above the hush of wind through pine needles. you are— a pause, searching for the right word. her gaze flicked up shyly to meet his, only for a heartbeat, before darting away again. she didn't have the courage to finish.
a breath, steadying.
i will find more, if want, she offered, tail brushing the snow with a quiet sweep behind her. better ones, maybe. warmer. a nervous laugh, breathy and sweet.

vhagar watches her reaction to his words — genuine in nature — the low bow of her head and shy but brief meet of their gazes slowly scratches something dormant to life within him. it creates a small strange flame of something in his chest that he cannot name. it feels powerful and dangerous and almost ugly, and he recognizes flashes of it prior. the ichor of the gods in his blood thrumming to life, awakening and nesting in his chest. like lighting a match and letting the flame lick down the wooden stick until it was in danger of burning fingers.

it is easy to think he wished to embrace his pharaoh bloodline, to call himself pharaoh of war in the guise of the name vhagar. it is another thing entirely to unlock it.

her words, you are — trailing off echo in his head, drawing him back to the exchange. back to her.

you are, you are, you are —

i am what?

he wants to know, wants her to finish her sentence. the dissatisfaction of not knowing prowls like a caged animal in his chest. but vhagar does not push nor pry.

do you enjoy making furs? is this your talent? vhagar inquires, gesturing to the fur with a paw. he does not give her an answer either way, not wanting to sway her choice. if she decided to make him more, he would accept them; if she did not, he would cherish the one she has already gifted him.

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silatuyok’s pale ears twitch, a light wind brushing through her fur like breath from the gods themselves. her eyes remain low for a moment longer, though a small smile—soft and fleeting—grows at the edges of her mouth, like spring beneath snow.
yes, she murmurs, glancing once toward the half-shaped pelt beside her, then up to meet his gaze again. women have… many talent.
her voice is quiet but sure. there is no boast, only truth.
she runs a paw gently across the grain of fur. furs… herbs… words, too. a soft laugh escapes her, breath more than sound. sometimes.
there is a pause, not from discomfort but thought. she considers the question not just as a task, but a thing deeper. making is… calming. useful. for warmth, for trade. her eyes flicker back to him, steady now.

women harbored many talents indeed. having been raised by priestesses in the bowels of the temple-den: away from prying eyes and loose tongues, vhagar knows this. they were weavers of stories, makers of berry wine and keepers of prophecies.
perhaps, in some sliver of a way, she reminds him of them.
you are very good at it, vhagar murmurs, turning his gaze back to the fur again. the scent... what is it? he asks next, hoping that if he spoke of her interests, of her creation she might open up a bit more to him.

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silatuyok smiled again, faint but present. her paw moved lightly over the edge of the fur, smoothing it where the grain had lifted in the morning chill.
tsákɨ shíyɨ, she said softly, voice carrying the broken rhythm of common tongue. and... c-cedar. keep moths away. good for skin. smell... peace.
she pressed her nose to it, inhaled gently, then looked to him.
she explained, when i am girl, i sew with old paws. many days. many winter. her gaze softened a little more as she recalled it.
you like it? she asked, quietly curious now, tilting her head ever so slightly. her eyes searched his—cautious, hopeful, and unreadable all the same.

loving him and this thread!

meee toooo! tuyok's such a sweetheart. <3

vhagar listens as she speaks, peeling back the aura of enigma that has surrounded her to allow him to peer inside. to see some of what makes her, of her past ... all the while offering none of his own. but there was little pride in his own past. a godling stifled. blood denied and shipped off as a gift ... as if he was not a prince.
tsákɨ shíyɨ. it is not a word he knows, but he does know cedar, at least. he is left to assume that tsákɨ shíyɨ is the floral scent he can detect on the fur.
things of fine oils ... they would've been gifted to him if he were born of the queen instead of a lesser wife. a sour taste lingers in his mouth: at his pharaoh-father. at all the things he'd been denied. but he tries to focus and not get lost on past grievances ... easier said than done.
his gaze lifts to her face where it rests, weight shifting slightly. i do.

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her nose lowers to the fur he holds, brushing it gently as if the scent might rise up again. cedar from old den. from before i go. her ears flick, uncertain how much to share, but she does not stop. now i make new.
a pause. her gaze lifts back to him. unsure if a man like him would ever say yes aloud, but hoping.
silatuyok does not speak of the past often. she does not pry into his. but the way his eyes grow distant tells her enough. whatever it is he carries, it is heavy. and though she cannot name it, her silence stretches gentle, like a quilt over chilled bones. soft. understanding.
handsome, she murmurs, meaning more than just the fur.