Ouroboros Spine tapvani ⦲

Kigipigak had tried not to look at himself once he was able to, disinterested in the look of his new scars as they mended. He hadn't had much opportunity to survey the damage while prone or while the wounds were being treated, and now he could look at himself in the brew of pond water, segmented to pieces by the bits of bark floating on the surface; yes, his scars were quite pronounced.

They were reminders of his foolishness, and he found them distasteful; perhaps that too was proof that he had grown beyond the boyhood adoration of mealy faces, tales of valor and conquest.

Through his judgements Kukutux' voice, —here is the hunter who has the name kallunguattuk: he who roars with the thunder of lions.

It was a fine sentiment. Kigipigak did not see it as such a fine title for himself, though. He had not fought the cat and won, he had struggled against death and barely prevailed. The cat likely roamed in search of more wolf flesh to tarnish and blood to taste. The thought chilled him.

Still, he warms again to Kukutux and smiles for her, drawing his eyes from the water. A few strides sinks his toes in to the soft floor of the pond, and soon he is wading deeper, an ice cap melting in to the green-brown soup she has prepared.

It is almost six days.

Sakhmet will come again, he nods as he says this, a lightness entering his voice. The thought of her is the strongest of medicines. Kigipigak hesitates, sifting bark from his path with a nudge of his chin. I owe you a life-debt. Are you sure I should leave to follow her? Is there anything I can do for you?