Ouroboros Spine v. two feet standing on a principle

The dove blinked snow-whet lashes, wondering after the words. She had never quite heard of a system like that of Raimo's kin -- though this did not mean that the tracker scorned it -- and could not imagine bartering for stories. They were freely given in her birthclan, weavers of lore holding a rank of their own and tasked with keeping the stories -- passing them between generations and lips. 

"How neat," she wisped with a faint wag of her caramel plume, lips tilting skywards faintly. "It is different in my homeland, there stories are not commerce. They are the history and fables of my former tribe, painters are held responsible for making sure they are not forgotten." It was a task that the sage young woman had shouldered with immense responsibility, one that had wizened her into the willowbark creature before Raimo.

"Some things are the same," the yearling contradicted, edges softening with some unspoken sadness. "The elder-kin believe our ancestors are kept alive by the art of keeping the stories alive," Lótë divulged though something inside shrunk protectively to think of sharing the memories she clutched not unlike a prized trout in an eagle's talons.