Sunset Valley honor, empty-mouthed

alone for now, but @Kuvageegai cannot be far off. rarely is.

nose to the ground she chuffs, lip curling as tongue flicks to better drink in the scent of others. male and female alike, stinking similarly of the pair she met recently. it carries on the wind, a warning, and she turns to move west. for now she will seek a weaker claim, territory not so readily sought after. and perhaps, after her daughters are born, this.

she will be too heavy to hunt alone soon, too unwieldy. back when she led the steppe, her daughters took up the mantle during such a time. she has only kuva now, and they must rely on each other. she finds the thought does not appall her. there is warmth in the presence of another woman. there is kinship.

while at first they slept far apart, viewing distance, night by night the two of them drew closer. now they sleep most nights with flanks touching, shoulder to shoulder. it is a comfort she is loath to let go of.

it is with this in mind that she seeks out a resting place, the familiar ache of pregnancy wearing thin at her.

her breath comes shallow by the time she finds the ridge—high enough to catch wind, low enough to hide. the ground is still warm beneath her. it soothes her some.

she misses him. she doesn’t say it aloud, not even to herself, but the thought lingers behind her eyes. she was not completely oblivious to her mate's intentions, but his distance is a wound she doesn’t know how to nurse—fresh and pulsing, made all the worse by the silence that followed. trouble clings to him like brambles, and now, it has driven a rift between them.

but when the thorns cut flesh, she cannot bleed with him.

she does not rest for long, the break of a twig rousing her from light sleep. she stands slowly, fur mussed, and eyes the stranger with a mix of wariness and intrigue. the stranger smells of mingling scents, of herbs and of others and of milk. a mother.

her stance softens, something akin to friendly, but still she does not speak. there is a grief that clings to this woman, a palpable sorrow. loss of a child, perhaps. qupirruarjuit knows this grief all too well. she steps forward, circling curiously.

"you mourn."

elowen blinks the sleep from her eyes, limbs stiff. the stranger's scent is thick in her nose now—earthy and bitter and sweet all at once, like crushed leaves beneath heavy paws.

the dark woman circles, and body stiffens, hackles raising as her head lowers. not submissive—well, maybe—but timid.

her voice, when it comes, is soft. "something like that," she scoffs, but it is gentled. her gaze flickers over the other woman’s frame—her ribs, her eyes, the shadow stitched into her breath.

she does not speak of lorcan. not of her dead children. not of the ache in her chest, but it lives in her eyes all the same.

she pauses, takes a respectful step back. no harm intended, and none will come. her posture is loose, easy.

a long quiet follows the smaller woman's answer. qupirruarjuit has never been one for warmth, nor comfort. and she does not soothe.

"others..with you? pack?" this one alone is no threat, too meek to put up much fight. but mountain woman has her own children to think of, and does not enjoy the idea of facing an army.

perhaps, if she is truly alone, kuvageegai will not mind extra company.