Herbalists' Cache Pingaluk

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Of all the potential scenarios that she’d considered during her journey down from the north, meeting a wolf as frustrating as the male had—surprisingly—not crossed her mind. Chulyin was the sort that prided herself on just how patient she could be, for allowing the time to slink by without being bothered was a necessary part of her life; always had she been fascinated with the hunt, which, of course, required each individual to be willing and able to wait for long periods of time. Yet, in spite of even that, she’d found herself capable of mustering up naught for the stranger. Perhaps it was the way in which he presented himself, or maybe she was simply taking out on him her frustrations over being in a new and unfamiliar region. No matter the cause behind her thoughts, they remained the same: the man was not to be trusted or liked. Even his response to her outburst had supported the decision to dislike him, his reaction having not been the slightest appropriate. Sure, he had moved away—a motion that had nearly made her believe that they shared a tongue, right before the more reasonable side of her brain presented an alternative—but he’d not distanced himself entirely. No, he’d taken only a few steps back, none of which reflected the true length of his stride.

There existed between them no verbal bridges, nothing to be crossed so that they might better understand one another. He was not of Inuit descent, and she had never taken the time out of her days to learn the English language—and why would she? Growing up, the yearling had never envisioned herself going off on a journey away from home, chasing after an image that she’d made up within her own mind. Even though she had first learned of her relative’s travels at a young age, the thought of following after him hadn’t ever presented herself until shortly before her departure several months back. Had she been aware of what the future held in store for her back then, perhaps she would have learned the language just as several of her siblings had done, and all for the purpose of putting mongrels such as the ebony man back in his place. To keep herself from being mocked and spoken of in a language that she could not understand, just as she wished to do in the present. The past could not be altered, though, which she both knew and, at times, resented. Besides, she was intelligent enough to pick up on tones, at the very least; the skill had been developed enough that she could feel her skin prickling beneath her fur at the mere sound of the outsider’s voice.

With a step towards him taken, Chulyin peered at the nameless wolf without even an ounce of fondness. “Aulitjak, kulângi,” commanded the yearling, despite her knowing that he would not understand. Although he could not comprehend her words, she hoped him to be wise enough to at least pick up on her tone, and realize that she had since grown tired of his eccentric behavior.

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