Phoenix Maplewood true like ice, true like fire

They began to move, and Sunday kept in step with him. In her mind, she saw the way her mother and father moved. Never before had Sunday thought of having such a thing for herself, up until she had it. But she would change nothing. Life had led her here. Within herself, innately, she understood that perhaps she might do as her mother before her had done and bring more life.

But Sunday was aware of the scent of milk upon Mountain Stone. And Sunday remembered that while new women had been welcome, their new blood was not. Not always.

Whatever came, Sunday would live on with it. As his warm breath came over her ear, Sunday Morning felt at ease. She had him, and he had her, whatever that end. She too existed in the present, and did not fear for or consider the future further than she already had. There was no use in it, and she was happy, now, for the way things were then.

Sunday leaned into him, lifting her chin to press her nose against the base of his. Each passing touch was a gentle mark to the man who had claimed her, and who she in turn intended to claim. She thought it a thing that was decided by them both, the day he had first come, and they moved together so well then and now that she felt all the more assured.

She was quick to clue in to his movement, and her eyes appraised him before she lifted her nose to the wind. Sunday stood alert, nostrils quivering as her tail swept behind her. Her bright gaze turned to Mountain Stone, and she licked her chops as she drew forward. The wind told her that some miles out was the herd of the same horned beast they had scavenged. Better to track their movement than to take them down alone...

Another passing breeze told her of a nearby hare, a running river, and of other small prey that they could give chase to.

He, like her, was a hunter; this day, she was content to follow him in whatever he decided was worthy for them to pursue.