Ouroboros Spine ukijijuk ⏧

more than that; kukutux brightened, to hear that she and lótë also shared this, or that she had been teacher and unknowing of it. words that had the sound of a story, not a song. she imagined it must be like when grandfather tusk man grunted out his monologue from the cold beach, but far more beautiful. anything this sister of hers chose to do would be lovely.

the natural world. and love. lótë preferred the hearing of those words that touched the secret places of the spirit, and kukutux nodded knowingly, pausing to stretch her jaw and roll her shoulders, saving against the pull and grate of the long-wound hide. "in my village, we each had a spirit-name. our mothers whispered them to our ears, and then again before we became wives. perhaps it is like this: a word that wraps a part of you in a sacred way."