Deepwood Weald arctocephalus

There was logic to how he spoke. He made sense. He was as physical and as real as she was; and when the man spoke of these different things her eyes flickered to his paws, his scent, his voice, as if to check off boxes that could prove his living status. He spoke his name — and some sounds she did not know, which earned a childish tilt of her head — and then the name of a village.

She realized after silence resumed, that she stared. That he expected something; this Dutch man. Her eyes widen a moment, and she answers, Sulukinak. It tastes strange upon her tongue. She has never had to say it aloud for anyone before — ice mother called her this, and called her brothers things too, but they never once had to call out for her in the same way. It was always sister to them, or sometimes daughter; it felt almost taboo to utter it.

The girl licked her lips, as if she might put a voice behind her thoughts, but her mind went elsewhere; and when she did speak, it was to ask, Where is your — village? Perhaps he meant his conclave, but he looked too old to still reside with his mother.