Shadewood shadow on the sun

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He was a curious thing. A chatterbox, enigmatic where she was frigid. Cream-coated and yet, something seemed off about him in a way that made her nervous. Had he thanked the crow for giving its life? Would he scatter the feathers in ceremony, or leave for the wind to play with? Her eyes narrowed and briefly Nootka looked annoyed; but she lifted free of her bed after a moment and with a confident shake, removed her skepticism with the snow.
Nootka. She answered flatly. It would be difficult to discern whether she was answering his question or presenting a name if he did not know the language; judging by his flowing use of the common tongue, the woman presumed she would have to choose her words carefully.
After speaking, her immutable gaze swept across the snow as if to regard the discarded feathers, but she did not remark upon them, and then settled her attention back upon the boy, as if juding him. Maybe she was. You are loud, like a spring boar digging for dinner. It wasn't an answer to his question — rather, an observation she felt compelled to make. Nootka licked snow off of her lips afterwards and gave a soft snort, and sank back upon her haunches within the shadows.
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