Silver Moraine toshin

@Sivaak

the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of salt—faint, but unmistakable. suliya paused, lifting her muzzle to the air, letting the crisp bite of winter and brine settle deep in her lungs. it was distant, barely a whisper on the wind, but it was there.

the ocean.

her chest ached.

she had spent too long inland, watching the caribou, learning their ways, tracking their movements, guiding others in the hunt. she was good at it—born to it, even—but nothing could replace the sea. the rhythm of the tide, the call of the gulls, the way the world smelled different when the spray misted across her fur.

she exhaled slowly, letting her eyes drift to the horizon. the sky stretched endless and vast, but it wasn’t the same. no crashing waves, no endless blue. just snow, tundra, and the dark shapes of caribou moving in the distance.

suliya sighed, pressing a paw into the frozen earth. she had a duty here. but still, she missed home.

the scent of the sea clings faintly to the other wolf, like a memory left too long in the cold.

you know ocean, she states, voice rough, more observation than question.

her gaze flicks to the distant caribou.

but you are lanzadoii. smell like black scar.

suliya’s brow lifted at the woman’s words. her gaze swept over the scarred figure, sharp and assessing, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. there was an understanding there, something unspoken but deeply known—the way the salt still clung to her, the way her presence did not feel like the tundra but something wilder, older.

i am lanzadoii, she confirmed, her voice even, though there was a pause before she continued. hesitation. then, softer, more reluctant, and muradoii.

the words tasted strange on her tongue, not because they were untrue, but because they were not ones she often spoke aloud.

underline denotes muradoii

sivaak looks at her, like a predator. but it is hard to not read the woman as such. herculean, matted by scars, her snout stained putrid with the gore of her last kill.

when she speaks the tongue of sivaak's people, she stills in a violent way. guard hairs raising—this woman thought her a fool.

she was long legged, lithe, boasting a valley hunters build. but sivaak does not get angry at pretty woman—she laughs, in her face.

and says: you do not look muradoii. you have soft stomach. legs of doe. and sivaak boldly comes forward, shoving nose against the pale woman's scruff. her flank. nosing at her hocks. what muradoii teach you blood tongue?

suliya does not flinch beneath the touch of the warrior woman. she lets her look, lets her inspect, though her cool gaze sharpens with something unreadable. her mother had warned her of women like this—ruthless, unrelenting, forged from the ice itself.

but suliya was not a delicate thing either.

her mother’s name sits on her tongue, heavy, unspoken. instead, she lifts her chin, lips twitching into something that is not quite a smirk, but something prideful.

my mother, she answers simply, though there is weight behind the words. she was muradoii.

a pause. the next words come quieter, less certain, as if speaking them aloud gives them more power than she is willing to grant.

my father forbade me from visiting everdark.

a flick of her ear. a shrug of her shoulders. she had never been one for following orders.

mother muradoii... she trails off, almost thoughtful, but then comes right back with a mocking snort. and you let father command you? forbid you?

what a turn of events this day had begun to take. the blood-drinker stalks curiously around the woman. taking note of small scrapes upon ankles and legs, characteristic of a lanzadoii hunter. always running, on the move.

it was what made them easier to respect than the even softer-bellied sharadoii. this woman lucky she did not tell sivaak she was sharadoii.

she halts in her tracks and pins her with blood red eyes. why you not with black scar band?

suliya's gaze flickers, sharp and assessing, though something like amusement lingers at the edge of her features. father would have killed me, she murmurs, the weight of truth heavy in her voice. and it is not a lie—had he known where she crept, what she learned, he would have ensured she never walked again.

but she had walked, and she had learned. she had carried the scent of the glacier on her pelt in secret, let the language of another people settle on her tongue. forbidden or not, it had shaped her.

needed a break, she says simply, rolling a shoulder as if it is as casual as stretching stiff limbs. her tone is light, but her eyes are not. she does not like being pinned beneath another’s scrutiny. caribou don’t move till dusk. no use in watching a thing that won’t run yet.

her tail flicks, her attention shifting, as if already dismissing the topic of fathers and black scars. why you not with muradoii women? she counters, arching a brow. or did you get bored too?

sivaak huffs, a short, sharp sound. amusement, maybe.

muradoii women do not bore. they rule. they shape. they make strong hunters. her lips curl faintly, but there is no warmth.

her tail flicks coldly against suliya's flank.

but they did not make me. the sea did. the hunt did. muradoii wanted me with women, speaking to waves, reading bones. i chose teeth. chose war.

suliya’s eyes narrowed, though not with offense—there was understanding in the line of her brow, a mutual recognition.

muradoii shape hunters with their absence, she said, voice low. when they choose to keep us from it.

there was no mockery in her tone. it was fact. a truth both women knew. to be withheld from the hunt was to hunger. to hunger was to sharpen one’s fangs.

the flick of sivaak’s tail against her flank was noted. suliya did not bristle. she was no soft-bellied girl; she knew the language of touch among those who bore scars.

the sea made you. the herd made me. she paused, considering. perhaps they are the same.

she bent down, tearing a strip of meat from the caribou’s haunch. she chewed slowly, watching sivaak from the corner of her eye.

you chose war. so did i. she swallowed, licking blood from her lips. but we all end up reading bones in the end.

sivaak snorts.

then i will read bones soaked in blood. her tongue swipes over cruel teeth.

she tears a strip from the carcass, rips it clean, swallows without care for the mess it leaves behind.

sea and herd. same? she considers, head tilting. maybe. both take. both give. but sea does not run. does not flee. it swallows. it drowns.

her gaze slides to suliya, lingering.

you ran? or did you drown?

suliya’s lips pull taut, jaw clenching.

i would have rather drowned.

there is no hesitation, no waver in her voice—only steel and salt.

it would have been honorable that way.

her gaze hardens, eyes like shards of ice. she thinks of the waves, the endless churn. the roar that could have taken her. the cold embrace of the deep. a warrior’s death.

better than fleeing. better than living with the shame of it.

she exhales sharply through her nose, casting a glance toward the carcass.

but i ran. the words are bitter, as if she is spitting them out alongside bile. i ran, because i was told to.

a pause.

by my mother.

sivaak snorts, a rough sound, not mocking—thoughtful.

then she was wise.

she looks at suliya, the set of her jaw, the weight in her voice.

a mother who sends her daughter away does not do so lightly. not if she is muradoii.

her tail flicks once, dismissing the thought of weakness entirely.

tell me of her. tell me what she was.

suliya’s tongue swiped over bloodied lips as she considered the question.

she was a witch, she said, voice steady but tinged with something—respect, perhaps, or fear. muradoii born. but she left. a long time in the glacier.

she carved into the caribou with careful precision, eyes narrowing as she worked.

she read bones like you. spoke to spirits. knew the herbs that kill and the ones that heal.

there was a pause. her mother’s face flashed in her mind—stern, cold, but with eyes that had always seen too much.

father did not like it. he wanted me lanzadoii. wanted me sharp. she taught me in secret, until he found out.

suliya shook her head, lips pressing together.

he would have killed her if he could. but she was stronger than him in ways he hated.

she glanced toward sivaak then, a flicker of curiosity breaking through her guarded expression.

you remind me of her.

sivaak watches. waits.

the way suliya speaks, the weight in her voice—it is not the tone of a woman speaking of a distant ancestor. it is closer. deeper.

sivaak’s eyes narrow.

what your mother name?

this woman is stoic and holds the same reverence that her mother had, grandmother even, and yet suliya does not waver. she didn't waver before sun eater, and she won't begin now.

her mother's name. ikpik. and if that wasn't enough, my grandmother was iluuraq. do those names mean anything? has anything that suliya spoke to this unwitted stranger make a half knot of sense?

sivaak seems to run cold, more cold than she had been. turning ruby eyes on the woman, ruby eyes that soon fill with detached anger and a simmer of betrayal.

your mother... she trails off. her tongue frosted by their shared tongue of muradoii. tongue of their shared people. but sivaak feels no more sympathy for this one. she is a bastard. forged of her mother's insolence.

sivaak huffs, chin jutting upwards, teeth slicing past black and bloodened lips as she sneers upon suliya. i see now. she circles away from her, ignoring the pulsating twitch of her muscles called to violence under her scarred, tattered white pelt. you are my weak kin's daughter.

suliya does not bristle, does not waver beneath the weight of sivaak’s ruby glare. instead, a slow raise of her brow—a flicker of amusement, but only just.

you think me weak, then?

her voice is quiet, edged with something sharp, something knowing. she does not move as sivaak circles her, though her muscles remain coiled, primed, ready.

you see what you wish to see.

a simple truth, one spoken without heat. if sivaak wished to find weakness in her, then she would. but that did not make it so.

suliya shifts her weight, tilting her head just slightly.

and yet, here we are.

a pause. a challenge.

sivaak halts.
the wind tugs at her pelt. old salt. old rage. her breath steams, long and slow, from flared nostrils.
sivaak see what is. she growls.
she turns to face her again. muscles corded beneath the stretch of scarred hide. her lip lifts, just slightly, not in snarl but in study.
your mother was kin. but she fled. took our name, spat it out. her voice is dry, rough like ice cracking. and now you wear it like pelt you did not skin. like prize you did not earn.
sivaak steps forward, close. too close. her breath warm against suliya’s muzzle. her words low, sharp as flint.
prove sivaak wrong. she rasps. spill blood for muradoii. carry scars. earn your name.

suliya does not flinch.

her breath curls between them, slow and quiet, not from fear—but control. her body stays still, but her gaze sharpens, glacial and unblinking. her ears shift against the wind, but her chin lifts, not defiant—resolute.

she nods once.

a quiet vow. one not made with teeth, but with marrow. let it be known in the blood that burns beneath her skin—she will earn it.