Whitefish River There are stories held in your bones

wolves had come and gone. the two with which she had traveled lingered, and there was talk of formaton. for kukutux, it was a time of unsurety. she had built up the walls of her ulaq against the spring storms, laid a cache in the floor with dried fish and rabbit meat, and carefully stacked the furs she had been able to bring from the keep against the back of the shelter.

now she cast about for flowers and herbs, blinking against the growing heat. it too soon drove her from her task to the nearby river, one for which she had no name. and when the young duck arrived, wariness struck her, for she was not alone. a woman who reminded her of gwen had begun to partake of the cooling shallows, a wound evident and wrapped upon her temple. kukutux narrowed her eyes, but waded into the river all the same, some ways downstream, and began to drink.