Ouroboros Spine ᐊ avvik

meltwater whispered through the stones. scents from her ulax curled thin into the pale sky.

ippiksaut worked the caribou hide in steady rhythm, each scrape a soft prayer. one blue eye, one gold, she watched the fibers tighten beneath her claws.

the lake glimmered beyond the ridge; moonglow’s laughter carried faintly on the wind.

taqqiq, she murmured, low as breath. see that i remain useful.

then only the sound of sinew and wind — the language she trusted most.

---

the paw steps of the crimson merc are thunderous.

with each long stride that he takes along the tall edges of the spine, red inhales a deeper breath. filling the sacs of his lungs, chest flaring, ribs rising, and then exhaling in momentous effort.

the man is aware of his trespassing on packlands, and yet he does not care. for he is an arrogant bastard, uncaring of anything but what fills his belly at the end of a long day. at least, that is how it has been for so long.

red does not slow until he sees in the distance the form of gray and silver pelt, and is smacked in the nose with an alluring scent. the masculine grumbles in thought, his large paws coming to a lumbering halt, and his tail flags; virile, dominant, he turns purposeful, displaying the brawn that ripples beneath his tattered hide.

do you like, madam? he asks wordlessly.

---

the scent came first— salt, iron, arrogance. then his shadow spilled across her work. she looked up, at last, eyes calm and cold as the water under ice.

the red one stood there like a storm convinced of its own beauty.  .

if you seek to be seen, she said, her tone quiet as frost breaking, you should go where the young girls weave their furs and whisper of hunters.

her claws pressed the hide, pulling the final seam into place. the fibers sang beneath her touch.

i am not impressed by brawn, ippiksaut went on, lifting her head, mismatched gaze cutting through him like wind through kelp. the sea has stronger shoulders. the ice carries heavier things.

she turned slightly, dismissive but not cruel, a queen at her hearth.

if you have come for trade, you will bring bride price gifts worthy of my hands. if you have come for boasting, speak to your reflection in the water. it will flatter you more.

---

so she is a proud woman!

well, that only sends the scarred heart within the mercenary fluttering faster. predatory, ice chill eyes glean through the nipping autumn air as he turns once more. showcasing his scarred, sinewy flank opposite to the first.

the sunlight burns upon a pelt of onyx and crimson, the coarse feathers glistening a bright ginger. red is not necessarily a handsome man, not like he had been once upon a time! but he boasts the presence of a seasoned warrior...

that alone is not enough to woo this female. so be it, then. red looks upon her craft, the pelt that she tans, and he angles forwards. you must be a cultured woman. red inquires with a flash of yellowed teeth.

good company and protection isn't enough for you? he inquires.

---

she did not startle when he drew nearer. only the faintest tilt of her ear betrayed that she heard him at all. the rest of her remained devoted to her craft, hide pulled taut beneath deft claws, the air around her thick with the smell of oil and sun-cured sinew.

his voice rolled over her, rough and proud, and she let it pass like surf against rock. when she did look up, it was with the calm weight of a woman who had seen too many winters to be charmed by teeth.

cultured, she echoed, the word tasting foreign. no. only patient. patience makes finer things than charm ever will.

her gaze traced the length of him, not in admiration but assessment— a hunter’s look, not a maiden’s. he was the prey!

good company fades with the dark, and protection is what men promise when they wish to own. her tone was steady, not unkind, but there was iron beneath it.

she turned the hide, pressing a dew claw to test the grain. i have my own teeth. my own fire. what else would you offer a woman who already keeps her own hearth?

and there it was— a quiet push, simple as the wind, impossible to meet with only pride.

---

red has never been one to force himself upon a woman.

he was brought up raised around a whole slew of females just as rough, just as fierce, as any man in the nearest proximity. the attitude of the woman before him? he is well accustomed to. she reminds him of several of his sisters, or perhaps even his mother!

stalwart.

oh, gods! he practically salivates.

the brute lowers himself to his haunches, his thick head settling comfortably between two bulbous shoulders. watching her with that one singular keen eye, glistening with... not hunger, but something similar. something less depraved.

ah, maybe he is the cultured one!

oh, red breaths fire, i've a whole life worth of stories. tales of glory found in battles, of love found and love lost! he grins. a terrible, ugly grin. it is not nearly as charming as red thinks it is. he stands up again, walks behind her, tail brushing along her flank like the nuisance he is.

do you like stories?

---

she hummed softly— a sound without melody, only the low rhythm of thought. the finished pelt hung stiff upon its frame, pale and clean, the work of her hands alone. she stepped aside from it, reaching for the next— heavier, darker, still slick at the edges.

when he came nearer, his voice all smoke and mischief, she did not answer at once. instead she pressed the hide against the wooden brace and said, if your teeth are for speaking and not biting, then make them useful.

her eyes, mismatched and glinting, flicked toward him. take that corner. pull until it sings tight.

his tail brushed her flank; she ignored it like a fly. the corners of her mouth twitched, not in amusement, but in command.

you may tell a story, she allowed, tone measured, as she smoothed the hide with her paw. one with blood in it, war. not love. love stories are for children and liars.

---

the woman before him isn’t like any he’s met in a long, long while. there’s no softness in her eyes, no room for flattery. she speaks to him coldly, and orders him to a task, and gods, he likes that far too much.

you wound me, red rumbles, blood then, fine.

he moves, broad shoulders bending close to the hide. his teeth catch the corner she’s pointed to, and he pulls until the stretch hums in the air between them. the scent of raw hide, of oil and musk, thickens. he works with a strange care for a beast his size.

once, there was a war. he pauses for dramatic flair. over nothing worth bleeding for, like they all are. that singular, sharp iceberg eye cuts to her. i was hired with shelter and a full belly to fight for a wolf who thought himself a god. well, he was nothing of the sorts. red huffs.

many throats i tore from their bodies. and it was during these battles, i lost my eye. his head lifts, turns, showing to her the gnarled scar and missing socket that leaves that half of his face in ruins. a fat bastard ate it, right in front of me. through sheer luck was i able to gut him.

a jovial laugh as he recounts it. he bled like a stuck pig!

for some time, red grows silent. thinking on that time of his life, so long ago it feels. when he speaks again, it is with a different demeanor. his words lowered to a thoughtful hum. alas, it came to an end. and when it was over, i looked around and realized gods don’t bleed, but kings do. and i did not want to be either.

---

the story drew her still. even the scrape of her paw paused when his voice changed— when the rough humor thinned into something older, quieter. she did not interrupt. her head bent once more, and the hide took the lavender oil from her paw in slow, glossy strokes. the scent rose between them, tempering the musk of flesh from his pheromones. 

you have seen much, she said at last, voice like breath through reeds. and lived when others did not. she dipped her paw again, working the oil into the edge of the hide until it shone. the gods did not take you because they had no use for you yet. sometimes that is a harder fate.

her gaze rose to him— initially callous, unfeeling,— and held for a long moment. she reached, assured yet spiritually, until her paw met the ruined side of his face. not in pity, but in recognition. her touch was light, the weight of feather over seawater. 

a scar is a story, she murmured. and you wear yours well. the sea...it eats many things, but not what refuses to drown.

the paw fell away. dripping in lavender oils that now bled onto his fur in a glistening sheen. she folded the last of the hide into its shape, a faint smile bloomed— out of pride, maybe. to have a male of brawn and battle-hardened to smell as delicate as a flower. 

this one will be for @Ahna, the moon-child, she said, setting the work aside. a gift for a bright beginning. you may stay, if your tongue has more stories worth the oil.

---

the mercenary goes very still beneath her touch. and he does not laugh this time, but instead grunts, rough and uncertain. just as uncertain as he is of the situation he has found himself in.

he is disarmed.

maybe. red murmurs.

he watches her fold the hide, the simple grace of her movements. it hits him harder than it should: the possibility of a simple life. the calm. the kinship. and that... that is something that he has always desired, above all else. war came, war went. lust brewed, and was consumed.

nothing appealed to him more than the concept of family, though. of pack.

when she speaks of this moon-child, ahna, and smiles, it almost draws one out of him. almost. and the crimson brute hums, a throaty noise.

he decides, then, that he will stay.

you will have your oil's worth. red rumbles. what is your name, woman of patience?

---

ippiksaut, she answered, her voice low, the syllables rolling like stones beneath shallow tide. daughter of the sea-ice, and now of moonglow.

she set the folded hide aside, pressing it flat with the curve of her paw. her mismatched gaze lingered upon him— the great red thing that had wandered so easily into her company, the scent of foreign soil still clinging to his coat.

you stand upon moonglow’s land, she said then, your steps are heavy, crimson one. but your heart does not feel cruel. she studied him a moment longer, head tilting. tell me your name, and I will take you to those who must hear it. my leaders are just— if you come with peace in your chest, you will leave with it still.

a brief pause, the faintest ghost of a smile. and perhaps a meal, if you mind your teeth.

---

red’s mouth twitches into something between a grin and a grimace. her name is one he has never heard before, and he notes it dutifully within his mind of steel.

it would not be forgotten.

red. he rumbles in turn. red wrath vengeance.

he shakes out his coat, rolling his shoulders once. no pack with me. he says to ippik. and i come without teeth bared. a smile. was it not clear he moved without violence in his heart?

he wonders what makes this woman so distrustful. has she been burned before by one similar to him? red's brows furrow, and he gestures with a large paw for the hides. want me to carry these?

---

yes, she said simply, gathering the edges of the folded hides and nudging them toward him with her paw. you have strength enough for that.

the morning light caught against his crimson fur, the scent of travel and smoke rising as he stooped to take the weight. ippiksaut watched, expression unreadable, save for the faint lift at one corner of her mouth— approval, perhaps, or amusement.

red wrath vengeance, she repeated, tasting the name as though measuring it against the wind. a name built from war and blood. mayhap the moon will soften it, if you stay long enough.

she turned then, stepping from her work and motioning for him to follow. come. you will bring those to the ulaq, and i will bring you to leadership. it is not our way to turn away a traveler who comes with open paws.

the earth was soft beneath her feet, thawing from the night’s frost. 

walk close, she said over her shoulder, voice light but edged with quiet command. these lands are gentle, but they have teeth. and i would rather they not test yours today.