Ouroboros Spine v. two feet standing on a principle

AW but for @Raimo, vague about her last thread since it's still open.

The artisan returned to the ring of mountains before midday, the heavens brightening to the off-white of sullied snow as the cloud cover rained down pure flakes -- hiding brother sun from her eyes. It powdered the dove's pelt in ivory freckles, clung to her lashes as frozen plumes billowed from her maw. 

She'd come across no small game to ensnare on her trek back to the Spine but the day was still young and she had news for the domineering shadow at least. Ghostly steps trailed him slowly through the woods as she circled her way up into the forested plateaus, each footfall placed carefully as her ears strained for sound. 

The obsidian woodsman intimidated her, she had no desire to interrupt whatever it was he might doing on the other end of his scent trail. The yearling found herself grateful for the challenge that the new layer of snowfall provided, making the man's sharp musk harder to track, growing faded and half-there beneath the snow. It meant it took longer before she had to report back to him.

All the more difficult that his natural cologne was that of the forest itself, and his endeavors amongst the black conifers. Pine, damp pelts, decaying needles with their pungent sap smell.

The girl came back in due time and Raimo did not wait for her; he patrolled the lower reaches of the mountain before choosing to climb among the fir trees again, heading for his sleeping place. He did not know how long it would take the budding tracker to return among them; his mind was elsewhere, having listened to the mourning songs fall down the spine on a nightly basis. He wondered if they were concluded.

Rather than insert himself and ask, Raimo paused over his sleeping place and then retreated from it — along a familiar corridor of woodland, then down the mountain again. He was almost out of breath when he saw the mist-coated girl, and chuffed to garner her attention. Better not to spook her again, he thought.

His call is gentler this time when her spring gaze lifts to his pitch silhouette through the falling slivers of white, allowing the dove to trot up to him. The Eta lowers her auds and dips her tawny crown lower as she pads forward, stopping a few feet from him in case the shadow gets an inkling to lunge at her again. A wordless sound of submission leaves her throat by way of greeting, soft as the crunch of snow beneath paws. 

"I found the herd that lived in the lowlands," she began, wasting no time on pleasantries. "Our colony appears to have spooked them; they graze in the foothills of the broken mountain. But Sialuk's strange storm has injured the land as well as its wolves. I think they will return here soon."

"It is their home too," Lótë lilted, tones dropping ever so slightly as jade optics fall with an unspoken sort of request. They must not be overhunted, but protected if we are to live off their numbers. She trusted the brooding shadow of the blackpine to keep them safe, for he seemed to be at the head of Kukutux's hunting party. The moondrop would not have trusted him without good reason.

"I think maybe they should be let alone until after they have resettled in the territory. There are two of note that could make candidates for a hunt at that time," she added, not entirely sure if he would pay any regard to the advice of a woman. Especially one young and small. "They seem to have injured themselves on the shards of rock left by the storm." 

At last her measured words, practiced nervously on her way up the mountain, die off and the yearling -- who would soon be a two-year -- blinked, splayed auds flickering as if she waited either for some response or further orders.

The woman brings with her some valuable information. Raimo is silent as he appraises her, sifting through the information as if he is panning for gold, and she has brought plenty. There is no mistaking her skill; she followed the herd diligently without bothering them, and returned promptly, as he had asked. She shows promise as a hunter—Raimo is glad to have her among their number.

We will wait for their return, then. He advises, or rather agrees. I do not know how long Kukutux and Sialuk are to sing, but I hope by the time their ritual is finished we can try to celebrate new life upon the mountain. You can advise us when the time comes. It made sense to Raimo. Lote knew which pieces of the herd could be culled safely.

He changed his focus at that point, now that they had a plan for when the herds returned. Raimo focused more upon the yearling now. Tell me, where did you learn to track? He wanted her story; but for now, this much would do.

Her snow-whettened lashes flutter damply in a momentary flicker of surprise. Again, she finds herself vaguely baffled by his demeanor. Mayhaps her first guess was closer to the truth -- maybe he was merely stalwart, staunch over the claim of Moonglow. To the cause of the grieving duck and her daughter. His roundabout shift in attitude gives her pause, if but for a moment, not expecting his agreement nor appreciation -- even if it shows only in the glint of his honeyed orb, the other coffee-dark and better at hiding its secrets. 

Nonetheless, Aiwëndil responds by lowering her head in a solemn nod -- shouldering the role he offers without argument, murmuring a soft thanks for his ready acceptance of her aide. At his query, the tip of her fawn tail twitched in a nervous tic -- holding her words close to her chest for a moment as she pondered whether this was safe to share. "The Land of Many Elms," came the muted utterance after a moment, knowing that he would not understand the title in her mother's tongue. "Men hunt there. But women might be callers and trackers, if they have the inclination." 

Raimo is oblivious to the feelings of the girl. He doesn't know how abrasive he can sound, or be, and presumes her behavior is merely youth playing a part. When she told her story it was brief, but it intrigued him.

He wanted to know more. He needed details. It was not enough to have a name for the place, or the basic set-up of their roles; it was not so unique, and while he could use his imagination to spin it in to something different, he would rather listen.

Ah, then you only watch? Study the animals and follow them. That was a limited role, Raimo thought. Do you enjoy your work? He asked a moment later, as if he were musing to himself; he looked thoughtfully upon her all the same.

"This is not the Land of Many Elms. I have since learned," the girl corrected, gentle as brother sun's morning rays reaching over the peaks of the Spine, "though even I must admit that my skills are subpar." Lótë faired well enough, though she failed as often as she succeeded, but the cost of learning such a skill had been great. "I do. Most don't consider what kind of lives their food leads but watching a herd or flock can prove to be surprisingly fascinating." She would pose the same question to him in return with a cock of her head: "Do you enjoy watching the animals you hunt?"

"I am better at telling stories," she added after a moment, with an indecisive flicker of her auds. "But it's been a long time and I don't think the traditions are the same here," the weaver admitted, smiling for the first time though it was wan. She was not sure many of Moonglow's residents would put much stock in colorful pictures and storytelling.

The girl sounded as if she enjoyed the study of animals rather than the chasing of them, nor the culling and eating aspects. Raimo wondered if all the women of her family were like this; did they study their prey the way he studied the people of this mountain? Did they use reasoning to deduce why an animal would do as they do, perhaps to predict the path they may take? It was intriguing to Raimo; but he did not get far enough in to his thoughts to form questions.

She had a question of her own, which was followed up by a statement that veered them away from talks of the hunt. Raimo's attention fixed more wholly on the girl as she spoke of being a carrier of stories.

I watch people the way you watch the prey, he remarks as an answer to her question and a way to continue learning about her. I am fond of stories myself. I have many from my travels. He wondered if that would earn any favor from her. Was she a gatherer of tales the way he was?

The mouse tipped her head in consideration. She had never thought about it but she too had occasionally watched the wolves around her. It was not a common past time of hers, however. She was not so fond of other people, preferring her birds and the wilderness. Perhaps it was different for Raimo, brusque as he was. His next words caused her tan auds to perk curiously, wondering if storytelling was a profession they shared in common. "Oh?" the girl remarked softly, a wordless query in her words that was voiced with her next ones: "Is it a trade of yours?" 

No, he response quickly, enthusiastic. It is an aspiration. I grew up among a nomadic family and many of them, the adults during my childhood at the very least, often had stories to trade. They would have me accomplish chores in exchange.

It had been a while since Raimo had thought of them or the praise they would offer him. How it had trained him in the matters of a fair exchange of services for a commodity; a practice he enjoyed now as an adult, much as it confused the rest of Moonglow.

I hold many stories within myself, he says next, sounding more oblique than he means to. I like to think it keeps those I love nearby. Some which have passed, but... stay with me, immortalized.

The dove blinked snow-whet lashes, wondering after the words. She had never quite heard of a system like that of Raimo's kin -- though this did not mean that the tracker scorned it -- and could not imagine bartering for stories. They were freely given in her birthclan, weavers of lore holding a rank of their own and tasked with keeping the stories -- passing them between generations and lips. 

"How neat," she wisped with a faint wag of her caramel plume, lips tilting skywards faintly. "It is different in my homeland, there stories are not commerce. They are the history and fables of my former tribe, painters are held responsible for making sure they are not forgotten." It was a task that the sage young woman had shouldered with immense responsibility, one that had wizened her into the willowbark creature before Raimo.

"Some things are the same," the yearling contradicted, edges softening with some unspoken sadness. "The elder-kin believe our ancestors are kept alive by the art of keeping the stories alive," Lótë divulged though something inside shrunk protectively to think of sharing the memories she clutched not unlike a prized trout in an eagle's talons.

Raimo listens. He smiles thinly at the similarities between his habits and those of her people, but finds that the more she speaks of them the more unremarkable they sound. It is not his goal to be unkind; he still wishes to learn of them as he wishes to learn of all people, all things. Knowledge is power. He can take pieces of the stories he gathers and patchwork new ones from them. They seem less alien to him the more Lote explains. Much like his own people, who he does miss.

Perhaps some day we can share stories. He offers, but he does not delve in to a story now. There will be time to share and to gather as the days move on. It is enough to have built this small bridge between the two of them — he can work with what she's offered up, coax more when the time comes.

I am late to a patrol, he decides, and nods his chin to her in a silent dismissal of himself. Raimo pauses long enough to hear anything else the youth has to say but it is clear by his reaching gait that he has somewhere to be, and soon enough he is seeking the comfort of the shadows and his work in private.

The dove's wheaten shoulders ease, a raspberry tongue swiping over her chops as the dark man prowls away. She's silent as the pantherine form of the huntsman fades with distance, lost amongst the greying shadows of the wood. There's dismissal in his words, the yearling offering only another blink of her boreal gaze as their conversation comes to an abrupt end. He's strange, she decides of this man who would lunge at her one moment and speak of bartering stories in another. But she's known worse -- a thought that inspired her to set aside the encounter entirely, ignoring it in favor of returning to the lower reaches of the Spine. She'd acquired a fair amount of mud in her search for the herd of elk. Despite how cold the water would be, the birdcaller looked forward to purifying her coat in its frigid, invigorating embrace.