Hoshor Plains some things are in our control (and others not)

The rain begins to pick up; far over the ocean comes the deep rumble of thunder. When she was young Nukilik loved storms; she often wondered if the sounds they made could be heard beneath the waves, or felt. Childish thoughts that were soon purged to make way for many more important things.

As drops darken the top-line of her coat, she does not notice them. The stranger's face is bright with hope and focused, briefly, upon her. Nukilik shed her shyness long ago (or so it feels to her); she does not pale when the stranger looks upon her face.

I have not seen anyone but you in quite some time.

A thoughtful purse of her lips. Then she is glancing over her shoulder to where the horizon is growing dark. The storm is coming. But a thought does occur to Nuka as she faces the stranger again—Perhaps I can help you to look. Are you their mother?

Apology draws across her face. The lightness of her posture no longer feels appropriate and so the lofty, friendly raise of her tail ends. The slightest frown curls the corners of her lips. The golden girl does not look old enough to lead her own enclave. Nukilik is a poor judge of age, considering her ongoing lifestyle of scavenging and loneliness. She feels a flare of jealousy that someone else be a mother before her; this brief but strong sensation is stamped down hastily before it can spoil her mood.