Wheeling Gull Isle moubeda

heda's song went on; she was not weaving the heather branches but aligning them as straight as she was able. they would be the foundation for the other things she meant to bring here, to the first place touched by sunlight and god's love each day. an altar. 
a tabernacle
her heart swelled with the pride of the thing. and when heda rose on long limbs to look down over the green-snowed side of the hills, it was to see the familiar ruddy hue of caracal's fur along with another, smaller shadow.
by the time she'd arrived, the boy had presumably started to answer again. she caught his scent; the good granite salt and blackpine of sapphique. "you smell like mireille," heda chuckled. "let me guess: you're one of herrrr — cousins?"