Herbalists' Cache just like you

for @Qupirruarjuit

the loamy perfume of pine and damp soil fills anoré's nostrils as she descends the hills. the snow is melting. there would be new growth soon.
her travels in the weeks prior provided the ex-matriarch the opportunity to see other lands. grassy plains and verdant thickets so unlike the icy, barren outcrops of winterhelm. it was a change she openly welcomed.
there, warriors were prized. their lives of more value than a mender's, whose hands were more often covered in dirt than blood. anoré was once drawn to clashing swords and gnashing teeth. then strategy. then something gentler.
a  smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she recognizes the faint shape of a delicate herb poking through the earth: yarrow, its feathery leaves already unfurling in the tender light of sun. a soft hum escapes her lips, a sound of satisfaction.
she pries the herb gently from the earth, careful not to damage the delicate roots.

long and far qupir has journeyed, away from the man who served his purpose. if he has failed her, she will not find him again. and if their efforts prove successful...daughters. she will not be alone.

she can only hope so. she pauses as something within her stirs, in the pit of her belly. not children, too early, but something unsettled. the mountain woman lowers her head and gags.

quietly she retches in the snow, bringing up yellow bile and river water. still her stomach tenses, cramps, insistent on expelling every morsel. she prays this is the result of pregnancy and not some disease carried by the stranger. a shudder, and then she lifts her head. she is not alone.

the mountain woman growls, low and deep, a warning.

each step reveals more bounty beneath the receding frost. coltsfoot, its golden petals still shut tight. burdock, its broad leaves curled, hiding the roots that would soon swell with life. even a sprig of thyme, its scent sharp in her nostrils as she pulls it free.
one by one, she gathers them and stashes the bundle at her feet. the dull ache in her jaw is a welcome one, but not so much as the rancid tang of something sour in the wind. her lips curl, forming a slight wrinkle on her muzzle. 
a stranger—a large, burly beast—enters her periphery. anoré does not miss the the flash of her teeth, nor the spittle pooling in the corner of the woman's lips.
the bile in the snow, the thin sheen of exhaustion, the way her body shields itself as if from an enemy within. not a challenge, then. a defense. sickness, anoré thinks, or something close to it.
the moonborne does not heed her warning and she takes a step forward. not out of impudence, but recognition. pale eyes inspect the woman, "you are ill?" she asks. a brief glance to her cluster of herbs, then back to the woman, "i have remedies."

but beyond this, she is tired. from her battle with the wild woman, her victory with the stranger man. her wounds ache, her stomach twists, and she wishes for nothing more than to lay down her head and rest somewhere warm.

beside someone warm, perhaps. qupirruarjuit examines the woman as she treads closer, observing no hostility from her. only a gentle look, soft words.

she is not a warrior, but a healer. qupir forces her fur to lie flat, lowering her head to expose the wound on her scruff. still her eyes remain narrowed, shoulders hunched stubbornly.

"not ill. wounded. you heal." warm breath billows from her jaws in a cloud, and she takes a closer look.

qupir examines the stranger closely, head tilted, inhaling her scent without hesitation. scars part the fur of the pale woman's face. one paints her haunch. not a fighter by nature, then, but a protector. a mother, perhaps.

anoré finds the wound at the woman's neck, already noting the edges of torn fur and blood that has started to congeal. she picks a sprig of yarrow first and crushes the leaves between her teeth to release the juices, their scent earthy and faintly bitter on her tongue. she presses the poultice against the gash.
the woman's flesh feels warm beneath the coolness, "still." anoré says, but she does not soften her touch. she watches as the blood begins to slow under her care, but in doing so, she notices something else. another set of teeth marks. not meant to maim, not driven by malice or hunger. a claiming.
anoré finds the stranger's gaze, "... may i?" a nod is all she needs. she presses her nose just above the woman’s scruff, inhaling deeply, searching for the telltale heat of fever. the sting of blood lingers, but something is not right. it is warmer, richer, like earth after rain.
to be certain, she lowers her muzzle to the woman’s flank, brushing her nose along the firm plane of her belly. there is no swell yet. but something within takes root. she straightens, "life." a paw ghosts the woman's side, where she would soon grow fat in the coming months.

qupirruarjuit’s eyes narrow, the tension in her posture barely concealed. her breath is a pained hiss, sharp and biting. she holds still, barely, as anoré’s nose brushes against her neck and side, the quiet brush of paws against her fur sending a visible shiver through her body.

life.

a slow, knowing smile tugs at her lips, though there is a rawness in the gesture—a sense of relief. she tilts her head, eyes glinting with an edge of something untamed. “daughters." she announces firmly, leaving no room for correction. then remains close, content with the minimal distance between them even after the ice woman finishes her task.

"you...name?"

anoré breathed in the scent of this strange, fierce woman—of blood, of earth. strange, how the gods had a way of binding wolves together, despite different paths.
she retracted her paw, but she still felt the woman's echoing pulse warm on her flesh. it was too early to confirm sex, but who was she to deny her of her wishes. instead, she offers a smile.
"anoré." she answers, her voice steady but soft.
"and yours?"

"qupirruarjuit qaqqalik." the name is spoken with the pride of a matriarch, chin slightly raised as if to signify her standing. qupir does not know this woman, but she too carries herself with the regality of a queen. perhaps the mountain woman would have found it alluring, were her sights not set on another.

"you, ah...kuin?" she hopes the common word is similar enough. a tricky language it is, and not one she takes joy in learning. it is only for trade that she does so.

anoré dips her head slightly, both in new-greeting and in acknowledgment. she knew when to show respect. not freely, but with meaning. her war-torn hide was all the proof.
"qupirruarjuit." she echoed, testing the name on her tongue, "strong. mighty." 
then, a low chuckle at the woman’s question—kuin. close enough.
"ah, queen?" she asked, lifting a brow with good-natured amusement, "i think i understand you. no, not kuin." she frowned, "not anymore. wanderer now. looking for new home."
"do you have a home? or—" she gleaned the qupirruarjuit's underbelly, "—start new home?"

"new home, yes." she nods, pauses to consider her next words.

"new start. my children." a fond glance at her own underbelly, hope for the future she intends to create. no patriarchs, no kings. only those sound of mind- women like herself.

"anoré." she tests the name on her tongue and finds she likes its sound. unusual, but far from unpleasant.

"stay. a request, not an order. only for the night.